A Most Unlikely Family
by Am-Chau and Raven
Summary: A Fanfic of most Wonderous and Strange kind; in which may be Found a Tale of such High Adventures as are Fitting and Proper to Wizards, Wizzards, and Witches. Harry Potter crossover, slash, mild mpreg.
1. Prologue

**A Most Unusual Family; or, Traditional Wizarding Holidays.** **by Am-Chau Yarkona (amchau@popullus.net) and Raven (loneraven@livejournal.com) ; being a Fanfic of most Wonderous and Strange kind; in which may be Found a Tale of such High Adventures as are Fitting and Proper to Wizards, Wizzards, and Witches.** **The rating be of R; the warnings be of mpreg; and the footnotes be forged of pure insanity. Beware, and enjoy!** Prologue: A Tradition In Wizarding Circles 

_"May you live in interesting times."- Agatean proverb_

There is a tradition in wizarding circles that the night before a climatic fight, you have wild hot sex with whoever you can find. It's supposed to tire you out, to allow you to sleep better, and give you better control over your magic. 

Harry carefully neglected to mention that he'd been told this by Draco Malfoy. Neville didn't react well to mention of Death Eaters, and Harry was fairly desperate for sex. 

They'd been dating for six months, technically. In that time they'd had sex four times—it would have been more, but the first time the Death Eaters had attacked just as Neville finally got Harry's fly button undone, the second time they were too drunk for it to really work, and the third attempt had been a flop. Literally. The bed-legs had woodworm in them, and Neville had standards. The floor was not good enough; neither was the sofa. 

So it was that their fifth time, the eve of the climatic battle with Voldemort, was a little surprising—everything worked. The wine was nice but not too strong; the attack didn't come early; and neither did they. 

Everything was quite traditional, really. The sex. The burnt-out shell of the once majestic Great Hall. The attack, just before dawn. 

"Ha! Potter!" some nameless and faceless Death Eater jeered, as a prelude to Voldemort's entrance. "You'll never defeat the Dark Lord!" 

"Don't be too sure of that," Harry said. Neville was just behind him, Ron on the other side, and Hermione hidden—with Lupin and Snape—behind the door, in case they needed backup. 

Neville was never a hundred percent sure about what happened next. He knew Voldemort entered the room; knew Harry fought him; saw Voldemort closing with Harry; knew he cast a spell intended to knock Voldemort backwards and give Harry some breathing room; and knew that it didn't work. And that wherever he ended up, it wasn't Hogsmeade. 

He found himself in a street. A dirty street. It was loud, considerably behind the times, probably Muggle, and a danger to life and limb. 

Utilising his carefully honed battle skills, he threw himself to the ground and moaned, "Oh God I'm going to die oh God oh God I'm going to die." 

"Quite likely, if you stay there," a warm voice said, hauling him out of the middle of the road and into an alleyway. "Who are you, and why did you suddenly appear in the middle of the road?" 

"Um…" said Neville, who'd never quite got the hang of talking to girls. Which this person certainly was. 

Her dress revealed slightly more of her bosom than anyone of Neville's previous acquaintance thought was quite proper. It was rather short, and it was possible to confirm visually that her legs went all the way from her shoes to very close to her rounded derriere. 

"Name?" she prompted. 

"Err… Neville, Neville Longbottom," he stuttered. "I… where's Harry?" 

"Who?" she said. 

"Harry Potter." 

"Never heard of him." Ah, a Muggle, Neville thought. He'd never really had to deal with one before. "Can you tell me the way to Diagon Alley?" 

"Diagon Alley?" she repeated, slowly, turning the name over in her mind. "No, I don't think I know of any place by that name. Maybe the Morpork side, but not round here." 

Neville frowned. He'd been so busy panicking that he hadn't really thought about how strange this situation really was. "What is this place?" he asked. 

"Ankh-Morpork," she told him. 

For a moment, he just stared at her—into her eyes, which surprised her a little—and then said, "Where's that, near Russia?" 

She shook her head, and he gave in to the urge to shut his eyes, lie back, and ignore all of it. 

* * * 

When Neville woke up, he was lying on a bed. 

"You've found an interesting one, Rosie," someone said. "I may have trained in Klatch, but I've never seen this before." 

"What it is?" the warm female voice asked. Rosie. Huh. Neville didn't think his grandmother would approve of women called Rosie. 

"He's a man, but he's pregnant," the other voice—male—replied. 

"Are you sure about that, Mossy?" 

"Positive. Male genitalia—male chest—but there's definitely something off about him. I've seen a lot of pregnancies, and I know them when I see them. The slightly raised heart beat, the beginnings of a bump… he's heading for the end of his first trimester." 

Neville started to say, "Impossible," but was overcome by a sudden urge to throw up. He rolled onto his side, intending to dash for a loo, but found himself vomiting before he could open his eyes. 

"Plus morning sickness," the man observed, resting a calming hand on the back of Neville's neck as he spat into the bowl which had appeared from somewhere. 

Rosie made a sound that could have been a stifled laugh, and Neville found the strength to say, "Can't be." 

"That's what I thought," the man who seemed to be a doctor replied. "But it seems it is. Look—do you live over by UU, by any chance?" 

"I don't even know what UU is," Neville said plaintively, and threw up again. 

"Shame," the doctor said, moving his feet out of range of the projectile vomit splashing out of the bowl. "I'm sure some of the mutations we see in this city are due to the magical waste they shove over the wall." 

"Magic?" Neville asked, when his mouth was free again. "UU, no. Magic, yes. You think some sort of spell did this to me?" 

"Could be," the doctor said. "Doesn't really matter. My name's Doctor Mossy Lawn, and Rosie tells me you call yourself Neville." 

Neville nodded. "Does matter. I'm a wizard." 

Doctor Mossy Lawn raised his eyebrows, and Neville suddenly realised that he didn't have his wand. 

"Or I was," he added. He thought about the last spell he'd tried to cast, and retched again, but he hadn't eaten enough breakfast to actually have anything to bring up. 

He spat anyway. 

"Right," Mossy said. "Rosie—do you know of anywhere he could stay? He's a stranger around here, and while there might be some sorts of work he could do—don't look at me like that—I think he'll have a hard time finding anyone to take him on. Explaining a pregnant man in the Shades is likely to bring him to the attention of the University or Snapcase or someone, and that's the sort of attention he could probably manage without." 

"I'm not sure…" Rosie began, but another female voice interrupted her. 

"I heard that Mrs Kissinger on Dumpy Lane has a spare room she was looking to hire out."

"Is that so, Sandra? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sandra, a short woman carrying a workbasket, shrugged. "I only heard half an hour ago. It's probably still available."

Rosie looked at Sandra, and then across at Neville, with an air of speculation which made him nervous.

"That sounds good," Mossy said. Neville looked at him, saw him go a little fuzzy, realised he was about to faint again, and was so embarrassed that he passed out.

* * *

Time passed, and if the History Monks interrupted its flow, Neville didn't notice. He was tired, he snapped at everyone who spoke to him (after about a week, this was only Doctor Lawn, who stopped by once a day to check on him—Neville suspected, but couldn't prove, pure curiosity), and he threw up on a regular basis.

His back ached. He got nosebleeds. His belly bulged. Eventually, the baby kicked him for the first time, and he swore at it.

When he could, he walked outside—but the streets were dangerous, and when Sandra got fed up with being yelled at, he didn't like to go out alone. Once or twice, Rosie accompanied him, but they got such odd looks that they quickly stopped.

More time passed. If he'd ever heard of the History Monks, Neville would have been convinced that they were stretching the time out to torture him.

One day, Mossy looked at him carefully, smiled, and said, "You're almost there. I… um… it's going to have to be a surgical delivery."

Neville didn't like the sound of that. He struck out at Mossy, but the doctor evaded his clumsy move neatly, and went on, "It's okay. I've done them before. Not on men, granted, but I have done them."

"Success rate?" Neville ground out, flopping down to sit on the bed.

"Two of the mothers survived."

Neville looked at him, brown eyes narrowed and dangerous. "Any cases where both made it?"

"One," Mossy said, nodding confidently. "Don't worry—there were only three cases. That's a pretty high chance, statistically speaking."

"I don't like Arithmancy," Neville growled.

"I'll come and see you again tomorrow," Mossy said quickly, and hurried out.

Neville started to hug his knees, a habit left over from the old days when he fretted about exams, but found it wasn't really practical. Instead, he sighed and lay down carefully on his side, fighting back the tears that seemed more common now than they'd ever been before.

* * *

Sandra was boiling water, while Rosie paced up and down. The room next door was producing a steady stream of swearing, and the occasional disturbing metal-and-flesh noise.

"What happens if one of them does survive?"

"Depends which one it is," Sandra said, practically. "If it's Neville, we'll start trying to find him a job—you can't keep on paying rent for him forever. If it's the baby—if it's a boy he can go to UU, being magic, and if it's a girl, I'll look after her until she's ready to go out to work."

Rosie looked sharply at Sandra, trying to work out if she'd really just suggested what she thought had just been suggested, and then put that to one side. "Would UU really take a boy in?"

"I think so," Sandra said. "One of the cleaners will, at any rate—there's a girl there, my age, wants a baby but… well, she's a touch on the plain side. Isn't managing to produce one by the normal method, lacking any assistance from the other gender."

"Ah," Rosie nodded, and was about to go on, but Mossy's voice from the other room stopped her.

"Come on, young 'un," he said, encouragingly. There was a brief pause, and then a high-pitched wail. "One of you ladies come and hold him!" Mossy yelled.

Sandra went for the door, but Rosie got there first. "It's fine, I'll go," she said, and the authority in her voice was apparently just enough.

She burst through the door. Mossy handed her the baby, and turned back to Neville, who—Rosie carefully didn't look anywhere except his face. In the time-honoured fashion, Mossy had got him drunk before attempting surgery, and he'd been unconscious for most of it, but the baby's wails had apparently woken him.

"Ugh," he said.

Rosie smiled. "It's a boy." Neville seemed to be trying to nod. "What's his name?" she asked gently.

"I… ugh, I'm drunk. Drunk as aaaaneeewt," Neville slurred. "Drunk… noot… huh… ditch wa'er. Mebbe pond wa'er. Pond. Ponder…"

Rosie grabbed the only part of that which seemed plausible. "Ponder? His name's Ponder?"

Neville didn't answer—he'd passed out again. Rosie stood there for a moment, but then Mossy elbowed her out of the way. "He's gone into shock. Come on, Neville, live, you bastard."

Neville didn't, and all Mossy's cursing didn't revive him.

* * *

"Blood loss," Mossy told his whiskey sadly that evening. "If I could only have…"

"Never mind that now," Rosie told him, slightly sharper than she'd intended. "Sandra's taken the boy—Ponder—over to UU, to the girl she knows there…"

"What's her name?"

"Sandra?"

"No, the girl."

"I'm not sure. Mary Stibbons, I think. Something dull Stibbons, anyway, or maybe Gibbons. Jane? Judith? Susan? One of those. Does it matter?"

Mossy looked up from his drink for the first time. "No. I just wondered."

"Ah." Rosie nodded, and couldn't think of anything else to say. "I'd better be going—work to do, you know. Sandra will be by later."

Mossy didn't reply. She took her leave.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One: Pronouns Have Become More Complicated 

_"+++Divide By Cucumber Error. Please Reinstall Universe And Reboot +++" - Hex._

"Damn, damn, damn," Ponder muttered, and kicked Hex's outer box. 

"If you're going to do that, sir," one of the younger students said, "why not go round the back and do a proper reboot?" 

Ponder glared at him—or was it a her? Since the University had started allowing female students, using pronouns had become infinitely more complicated. "This is my machine, young man, and I don't need your advice." 

From the look he received, the student was a little upset about being called a young man. This impression was confirmed when she stuck her chest out, allowing her robe to fall open. Ponder mentally shook his head. Dressing like that shouldn't be allowed. 

"If you don't mind me saying so, sir, things have changed a lot since you started working on Hex," she said. "We're using termites now, instead of the old-fashioned ants. And the integrated picture imps are splendid, but they get very annoyed if you joggle them for no good reason." 

This was, Ponder had to concede, true. Somewhere along the line he'd stopped being the youngest member of staff; he'd lost touch with changes in his own department; and the project they were currently working on—linking Hex with the Library—was mostly incomprehensible to him. 

The terribly embarrassing part, and the reason he'd not requested a further explanation, was that the Librarian seemed to have understood it all along. 

He looked at the student. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder, watching him carefully. After a moment, she volunteered, "It's dinner time, sir." 

Ponder nodded. That was something he did understand. "I'll, err, be in the dining hall if you need me," he said, and hurried off. 

* * * 

Ponder had reached his fifth course when the young women who'd packed him off to dinner burst into the hall. "Excuse me," she gasped out. "Professor Stibbons—we need…" 

"Hang on one moment," boomed a voice from the head of the table. Ponder, his student, and most of the rest turned to regard the Archchancellor with a mixture of respect and fear—except for the Bursar, who smiled politely at her and said, "Morning, Mr. Flowerpot." 

"Who are you," Ridcully thundered, "to be taking one of the Faculty away from his meal?" 

"S-s-sorry, sir," she stuttered. "I'm… my name is Gytha Ogg." 

He looked at her, and she seemed to feel some sort of explanation was needed. "After m-my grandmother, sir. My mother was Tracie Ogg?" 

Ridcully nodded. "An Ogg, indeed. Well, I suppose that's all right. Carry on, Mr. Stibbons." 

Thus approved, Gytha hurried to Ponder's side, and explained in a rushed whisper, "It's Hex. It wants us to connect to the fireplace, and we think we know how, but we're not sure what's going to happen, and it's saying something about connecting the whole universe, and we thought we'd better have you there when whatever is going to happen happens. Sir."

Ponder took one final bite of chicken drumstick. "I'll come," he said. He cast a brief but forlorn glance at the rest of his loaded plate—but some ancient drive to understand the way things worked, and the knowledge that at UU there would always be another meal along soon, outweighed his desire to keep eating.

Gytha allowed him to precede her along the corridor.

* * *

The High Energy Magic building was swarming with people, at least in a certain sense of the word. There was a crowd in the centre of the room, consisting of about six students, most of whom Ponder recognised but couldn't name, one orang-utan, and a rather agitated computer.

The Librarian climbed down from the wall, and knuckled across to Ponder. "Ook," he said.

Ponder considered for a moment. "I don't see any harm in trying it—we've always been an experiment-orientated department. So long as we don't *light* the fire, I don't think we can damage anything."

On top of the computer, a group of termites changed rapidly from a solid blob to a flowing shape which spelt out semaphore signals. These were taken down by a series of picture imps on the 'printing combination' a meter away and put onto small sheets of paper, which then hung on the edge of the shelf.

Ponder frowned at them. "I didn't know we'd stopped using the handwriting machine," he said.

"We haven't, sir," one of the younger students explained. "Hex just uses this method for short messages with lots of abbreviations in. We call it imp-mail."

"Ah," Ponder said, nodding knowingly and trying to read the message spelt out.

HOOK ME UP 2 DA FIRE AN LIGHT IT B4 IT'S 2 L8 AN I KILL U. LOL.

"Um," said Ponder, a moment later. He took off his glasses, polished them quickly on the hem of his robe, and replaced them. "You'd, err, better do what it wants." He waved an airy hand to imply that he understood it all perfectly and why were they still standing around looking at him like that because *he* wasn't going to get his hands dirty.

The students moved into action. Ponder and the Librarian stood side-by-side, watching with interest, and, in one case, understanding.

* * *

One short sweep of the Moebius Curve of the universe away, another green-eyed man was polishing a round pair of glasses.

"Draco," he said, and sighed. "Come on. It's a day—another day, that's all. You've lived through thousands of them."

"That's exactly the problem, imbecile!" Draco snarled, and for a moment Harry could see that however long he lived and however grey his hair became, the sneering Draco Malfoy of school would never quite leave. He was obscurely glad of that. "I've lived through more than twenty-five thousand days, and none of them have ever been my seventieth birthday before!"

Harry looked at the angry man, sighed again, and sat down carefully on the sofa. Once, he would have flopped; these days, his back gave him too much trouble for that to be an option. "And it hasn't made you any nicer," he muttered under his breath, hoping that he was right about Draco getting a little deafer.

Not that Draco would ever admit it, but it did seem to be true. Draco wasn't really the sort who opted to ignore things, especially insults. "I'm fed up with this, Harry. Neither of us ever do anything interesting. You've got your friends, but they're dull. My friends are all dead, even the ones who survived the war. I never go out. I never do anything. Well, nothing **interesting**."

"You yell at me a lot," Harry said, bitterly. "Especially since we dealt with your mother."

"Don't mutter under your breath!" Draco snapped. Harry hadn't muttered—said it quietly, yes, but not muttered.

"YOU ARE GOING DEAF, YOU KNOW," he hollered.

"No, I am not," Draco returned.

"You are," Harry said, loudly though slightly more normally. "I said, you yell at me a lot!"

"Only when I'm upset!" Draco said.

"You're upset all the time!" Harry told him. Draco stamped his foot.

"That's what I've just been saying! You never listen to me!"

Harry sometimes imagined that living with Draco had a lot in common with having a teenage son—with one major difference: a teenage son would eventually stop being a teenager. Once, Harry had hoped that Draco would get past it, too; but at seventy, he showed no signs of ever doing so. Habit, Harry guessed. Draco was a creature of habit from start to finish, which was why they were still living in Malfoy Manor.

Draco was still shouting. "You don't listen to me! You don't care about how I feel! You don't love me!"

The first one, Harry had to admit, was probably true. Learning to tune out Draco's temper tantrums had been a fairly easily acquired skill after years with Dudley the drama queen. The other two, though… "I do care!" he said. "And I do love you. You know that."

"How should I? You never say so!"

"I just did," Harry pointed out utterly reasonably.

Draco looked like he was about to spit at him. "You never let me do what I want!"

"Not when it's hang-gliding, no," Harry said. That was a choice he thought he could defend fairly easily.

"You didn't let me kill that Weasley child when I had a chance!"

"No, of course I didn't," Harry said. He stayed calm. It would wind Draco up even further, but the more wound up he got, the more of this he'd get out, and the sooner this argument would be over.

"It was evil!"

"She spat a little on your robe, that's all." Ginny's daughter had only been a year old, and Harry felt such things were excusable at that age.

Draco didn't. "It's evil and ugly—it'll probably lead the next Dark Army!" he yelled.

"Now you're being silly," Harry said. "Look, Draco, when you've finished shouting, there are birthday presents for you to open."

"Don't want stupid birthday presents," Draco said sullenly. "They'll only remind me how old I am." His face said otherwise, though. Draco *liked* presents.

"They're piled up by the fireplace in the front room," Harry said. He got up slowly, and then offered his hand to Draco. "Shall we go through?"

Draco looked at him a moment, and asked, "Do you think she's really gone?"

Harry was taken aback for a moment, but then he realised: Narcissa. "Oh, you mother? Yes, she's gone, Draco."

"She put up quite a fight," Draco said. He sounded obscurely proud.

"Well, she's gone now. Okay?"

"Don't patronise me!" Draco snarled, his stormy grey eyes still filled with resentment and anger. "I won't stand for it!"

Harry shrugged. "Then don't. Come next door and have presents instead."

Draco stared at him, and then laughed. "Tell me, Harry, how did we reach seventy this healthy and clever?"

"Magic," Harry said. "Magic, bathing in milk once a week, and always being glad to see each other."

Draco took his hand, kissed him softly, and lead the way into the next room.

* * *

Half an hour later, Draco was opening his last present (given, grudgingly, by Sirius Tonks, eldest son of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, who had changed his name from Lupin to Tonks at sixteen in an attempt to refute his werewolf heritage, the first stage in a split in the wizarding community which had lasted from that time until Nymphadora's untimely death at the hands of Mad-Eye Moody, who had thought her suddenly dark hair and black eyes a sign of possession by Voldemort's ghost. Remus and his son had been reconciled at the funeral with a little help from Harry. Sirius Junior, as he was known, did not consider this ample reason to give gifts to Harry's significant other, but it was expected, and after his father's death he hadn't quite had the heart to stop)—when an orang-utan's face appeared in the fire.

"Ook," he said. Draco screeched a little, to which the orang-utan replied, "Eeek," in an eerily similar tone of voice, and then disappeared.

Draco looked at Harry. "Did an orang-utan just wish me happy birthday?" he asked, quite seriously.

Harry suddenly found that he couldn't stop laughing.

"What?" Draco asked, annoyed. "Share the joke, Harry, why don't you?"

Harry giggled some more, gasping for breath, and then replied, "I don't know, Draco. Have you got any orang friends?"

"No…" Draco said, thoughtfully. "Unless you count Goyle's son—he's even stupider than his father was…"

"I'm sorry about that," said another head in the fireplace, and Harry and Draco found themselves looking into a face which, to Draco's eyes, strongly resembled Harry of twenty years ago.

"Harry, I didn't know you had a twin," Draco said, but at the same time Harry was saying, "Neville… no. But nearly…"

Draco didn't like the mention of Neville. Longbottom had been haunting Harry's dreams and Draco's sex life for fifty years or more, and it wasn't good to have a reminder of the man Harry had loved and lost to war.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply of the apparition.

"Stibbons—Professor Ponder Stibbons," the head replied. Draco and Harry exchanged a glance, thinking, 'Gosh, we really have lost touch with Hogwarts, haven't we…' "As I say," Ponder went on, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but—could you tell me whereabouts on the Disc you are?"

The two old men on the sofa shared another meaningful glance, and Ponder wondered what he'd said wrong. "Just a general location will do," he said, thinking that maybe they were in hiding and didn't want their position known. "For academic uses only."

"Malfoy Manor," Draco said, still frowning.

Harry expanded, "Derbyshire."

Ponder's forehead wrinkled over his round glasses. "I'm sorry, I don't know where…"

"Tell us where you are, first," Harry said kindly. Draco kept his smile inside—trust Harry to be the typical Gryffindor, even confronted with a head in his fireplace who could (Draco nearly didn't put this thought into words, but decided he had to be brave) very nearly be his son, maybe even his son by… Neville's sister? Surely not Neville himself, that was impossible. No, Draco told himself firmly. Stop having silly thoughts in your old age.

"I'm in Ankh-Morpork—the Unseen University," Ponder replied promptly. "Or at least," he added, edges of scientific accuracy showing through, "my body from the shoulders down is in UU, in the High Energy Magic building."

Draco raised one eyebrow. "A magical university?" he said, incredulously.

Ponder nodded, a strange motion because it made his chin flicker in and out of sight. "We're a thriving community of lively minds and sated bodies," he told them, quoting from a recent edition of the prospectus (they hadn't liked the idea, but the Patrician, now well past the point when anyone else would have retired, had insisted), and then added "You're wizards?"

"Yeah," Harry said, and pulled his wand out. "See?"

Ponder stared at it. "That's… a little stick. Wizards have staffs." He poked the end of his own six-foot apple wood staff into the fire, displaying a foot and a half with a knob on the end.

"Mind's a wand," Harry said. "Yours is… a stick with a Christmas decoration on."

"Does it matter?" Draco asked. "We can do magic, you need our help."

"Well," Ponder said. "If you're willing…"

Draco looked at Harry, wondering how to phrase this. "Err… Harry, I think we might best be able to help Professor Stibbons if we were to pop through and find out exactly where he is."

Harry looked doubtful.

Ponder, on the other hand, looked suddenly hopeful. "You, err, know about this sort of thing?"

"Positive experts," Draco said confidently. "Don't you think we can spare an hour to help him out, Harry?"

Damn Draco, Harry thought. He knows too well how to make me do things. 

"Okay," he nodded. "Just an hour, though, and then we're coming back." 

Draco grinned, lizard-like. "High Energy Magic Building, Unseen University, Ankh-Morpork, right?" he confirmed with Ponder. "Well, get your head out the way, we're coming right through." 

They had a short tug-of-war with the bowl of Floo powder, which Harry won. Then they were stepping into the flames, hand in hand, and saying, "Ankh-Morpork."


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: A Flavour of Ankh-Morpork 

_"For a true taste of Ankh-Morpork, try a Knuckle Sandwich." -Wellcome to Ankh-Morpork, Citie of One Thousand Surprises, Guild of Merchants publication_

At the lordly age of twenty-one, Harry Potter had lived in two worlds, won the war against the powers of darkness, and had sex several times. 

At the age of seventy, he'd had quite a lot more sex, but he'd never won another war, and he hadn't expected to suddenly be faced with a third world. A world, apparently, in which orang-utans were a normal part of university staff. He supposed they couldn't really be worse than some of his professors at Hogwarts. Mentally, he made a note to ask Hermione what sort of ape she thought Professor Snape would have been, and turned his attention back to the matter in hand. 

"… and this is Gytha Ogg," Ponder said. He'd been making introductions, clearly. Draco was smiling. 

That worried Harry a little. 

"Perhaps you could tell us a little about your world, sir," the young women he'd been introduced to as Gytha said. "Where are you from? What's it like? Do you have magic?" 

"I'd be happy to. And call me Draco, please." He was enjoying the presence of an audience—always the show-off, Harry thought fondly. "We have magic, indeed—" Draco produced his wand and demonstrated a couple of transfiguration spells, "—and…" 

Harry looked around the room—there were some chairs in the far corner. Unobtrusively, he slipped across and sat down. Let Draco have his day—it was only fair to let the birthday boy be the centre of attention, and Harry was sure they'd recognise the scar and turn the tables soon enough. It always happened. 

He leaned his head back against the wall, listened to the tone of Draco's voice rather than the words, and let himself doze off. 

When Draco was still talking a full hour later, the students gathered round him—talking sometimes, but mostly hanging on his every word—Ponder started to regret having allowed him in. He noticed Harry in the corner and decided to kill two birds with one stone, by being polite and getting out of the circle of students at the same time. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Ponder said, seating himself. 

"Potter—Harry Potter," Harry told him, and was more startled by the lack of reaction the name got (from a man who claimed to be a wizard, too!), than by anything else he'd seen so far, although the extraordinary machine in the corner, which seemed to be sending a line of termites out to examine Draco's wand, was a close second. 

"So, err, Harry—you're, um, from a different planet," Ponder said. He sounded awkward, and with a jolt, he reminded Harry of Neville. 

"Yes," Harry said, "but that doesn't matter. How old are you?" 

"I'll be fifty-one in two months time," Ponder said. "Are you…" 

"Who were your parents?" 

Now Harry came to think about it, Ponder was wearing glasses too, about the same thickness as his own. And the messy hair under the hat was the same texture. There was more of Neville about the chin, but the nose… Harry knew that nose. The mirror. Pictures of his own father. 

"I… I was brought up by a girl who worked here as a cleaner, but she told me—when I was old enough to start attending lectures if I could prove I had a magical background—that my parents were both wizards; she said some woman from the Shades had found me and one of my parents—she thought my father, because his name was Neville, but there was some confusion—in the road. He died, and she brought me up." 

His suspicions confirmed, Harry swallowed hard, nervous suddenly. "Look—Ponder, lad—this is going to be odd, but… I think I might be your father." 

From his own recent experience of the same process, he could recognise the stages as Ponder went through them: look at the stranger. Remember the face in your mirror. Compare. Not as much contrast as you'd expect, is there? 

"Ah…" Ponder said, and looked about to say something else, but he was prevented by a noise from the other side of the room. Someone was banging on the door, and they seemed quite determined to get in. 

As host, and lord of his domain, Ponder hurried over and opened the door. Mustrum Ridcully burst through in a waft of mustard-scented air, closely followed by a tall, noble-looking gentlemen who was dressed entirely in black. Harry had the distinct impression that, like Lucius Malfoy, he was not used to being disobeyed. 

"Your lordship, this is our Reader in Invisible Studies, also head of the Very Small Bits of Magic Investigations Department and Professor of Thaumatics, Ponder Stibbons; these are some of his students: Gytha Ogg, Albus Dibbler, Clark Telcontar, Sev of Klatch…" 

Ponder leaped in to explain. "His real name is much longer, but none of us could say it, so we settle for a chopped-off version…" 

"… only then we called him 'Severus', because we cut his name short…" Albus put in. 

"… and then we shortened that to Sev," Gytha finished, with a slightly wicked grin. 

Harry, coming up behind Ponder, could suddenly see why Draco had got on with these people so easily and quickly. 

"Be that as it may," Ridcully said firmly, "this is Sev of Klatch, and two other students whose names I don't know—you met the other one, George, when he came with me to tell you about our…" 

"Guests," Lord Vetinari told him. "These people are our honoured guests, and as such it is my duty to welcome them to the city." 

Draco took Harry's hand and pulled him forwards, giving Vetinari a polite smile as he did so. "Draco Malfoy. I'm honoured to be here…" 

"Lord Havelock Vetinari," Ridcully supplied. 

"Your lordship," Draco finished, and held out an elegant hand. Vetinari smiled at him, and they shook very briefly and carefully. 

"And you are…" Vetinari enquired, turning to Harry. 

"Harry Potter," Harry told him—and shook hands firmly and a little roughly, just to show how different he was from Draco. 

"You would, I'm sure, like to see a little more of this splendid city of ours," Vetinari said. "Someone must be appointed to guide you." His gaze seemed to be slightly reproving of Ponder. 

"Actually," Harry began, thinking, we must be getting home, people will worry, but Draco's voice cut across him. 

"We'd be delighted to spend some more time here," Draco said. "I'm sure there's much we can learn from a trade of ideas between our two cultures." 

Ridcully got the distinct impression that Vetinari was glad to have someone playing this game at his own level. However, as Ridcully had no intention of playing that sort of game, he decided to tilt the playing field in his own direction. 

"The University will be glad to have you all as guests at dinner," he said. 

"And I would be delighted to attend," Vetinari said. "However, I'm sorry to say that I have guests at the Palace this evening—heads of all the guilds. If you recall, Archchancellor, you were invited. Would it not be better to include our honoured guests in that party? At the top table, of course," he added, with a nod to Draco. 

Harry rolled his eyes surreptitiously. He'd had a lot of practice over the years—being Minister of Magic was essentially the same as being Patrician, as far as he could see, and he'd hated all the politics then. Draco had enjoyed it, though. Harry would have quit the post a lot earlier if it wasn't for Draco. 

"We would love to come—if you'd grant us one boon?" Draco's tone carried a little more command that Vetinari liked, but he nodded. 

"Within reason." 

"We've already established a profitable relationship with Professor Stibbons—if he could be present as well, I'm sure that would help things along," Draco said. 

Vetinari smiled thinly. "I'm sure that can be arranged," he said. "Perhaps Professor Stibbons would like to accompany us now—I intend to take a carriage ride back to the Palace, and if there were to be company in the form of honoured guests, I'm sure I could be persuaded to delay my paperwork a little and go the long way round, in order to give you a flavour of Ankh-Morpork's streets." 

"That would be lovely," Draco said. 

"Shall we be going, then?" Vetinari asked. "I'm sorry to steal one of your professors away like this, Archchancellor, but at the request of our guests…" 

Ridcully nodded shortly. 

"I'll look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight, then," Vetinari smiled, and waved for Draco to precede him from the room. Harry, overcome by a sudden and uncharacteristic attack of jealousy, hurried after him and took his arm. 

Vetinari swept after them, and Ponder, flustered and puzzled, stumbled along behind. 

* * *

Ponder thought big dinners were a good plan; but he found the ones at the University much more to his taste than those at the Palace. For one thing, at UU, it was normal practice to start at the top of the first course and shovel in as much food as you could, keeping going on the magically-refilled plates until you reached the bottom. 

The transportation magic had improved dramatically in recent years, and you now didn't have to clean your plate yourself before requesting the next course. Not that left-over food was normally a problem. 

At the Palace, by contrast, you had to eat slowly, and talk to someone between bites, and wait until the maids come round with the next course. It was boring. Not to mention not being very satisfying. 

To his left was the current head of the Assassins' Guild, a nervous-looking pale young man who sniffed every mouthful for poison before he ate, and never said anything, even 'pass the salt'. To his right was Harry—who'd been placed to Vetinari's left, to mirror Draco on the other side. 

Vetinari and Draco were deep in an abstract (and rather loud) conversion about styles of government in different countries, which—to judge by his expression—Harry had lost interest in some time ago. 

Very, very quietly, Ponder said, "So—dad—tell me about my mother. Presumably, her name wasn't actually Neville."


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three: The Concept of Motherhood 

_"Giants are… they're not very nice." - Ron Weasley_

Harry nearly choked on his mouthful of asparagus. "I… err…" he spluttered. 

Draco cast him a worried glance, which he returned with a smile before turning back to Ponder. 

"As a matter of fact, Ponder, I… let's start at the beginning, shall we?" Harry kept his voice down, as Ponder had done, and was frantically thinking through the story, trying to edit out anything that he might be ashamed of. 

"Good idea," Ponder said. He seemed prepared to wait for the story to begin properly. 

"Well… for one thing, yes, actually, if things have happened as I suspect they have, your… mother," Harry's voice faltered over the word—Neville and motherhood were not concepts that fitted together easily—but he took a deep breath and went on, "Neville was a man. I'm, err…" 

"Homosexual?" Ponder supplied in an undertone. "I don't mind—some of the best wizards at UU incline the same way." 

Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly, something Ponder was absolutely sure he'd learned from Draco. It didn't quite fit Harry's round face the way it did Draco's more pointed features. 

"The current Senior Wrangler, for one; and probably the Dean of Liberal Studies. And of course there are always rumours about Rincewind—his friend Twoflower is very, um, fitting of certain common stereotypes—but I'm not sure. I think he'd run if anyone actually tried anything, whatever gender they were. Anyway, he's barely one of our best wizards. Not that it matters; I quite like him. The Librarian and he are great friends." Taking note of the expression of cultural overload Harry was displaying, Ponder stopped. "Sorry. You were saying?" 

"I… I loved Neville. In a physical way as well as an emotional way." 

"Draco, too?" Ponder guessed. 

Harry nodded. "With Neville gone… when he left me… I thought he'd been killed outright by some sort of evaporating spell… we were fighting an evil wizard at the time, you see… times were hard…" In an undertone, over the rest of that course and the next, Harry outlined for Ponder the basic course of his life: from Hogwarts, through the war, and into his time as Minister of Magic. 

He was just about to describe how, at sixty-seven, he'd finally persuaded Draco that he really was ready to retire and that Hermione's daughter could take over as Minister, when Vetinari turned to him and said, "You've lead an interesting life." 

Blushing bright scarlet to a degree he thought he'd given up at fourteen, Harry stuttered and looked desperately at Draco. 

"We're both quite old, Lord Vetinari," Draco said smoothly. "You can imagine, we've lived in interesting times, and been in the thick of the creation of history." 

"I must introduce you to Commander Vimes," Vetinari said. "He, too, has more than once been in the centre of history in the making." 

"That would be fascinating, I'm sure," Draco replied. 

"He and his wife will be attending the dancing tonight," Vetinari commented. "I'll see if I can introduce you then, if that's agreeable to you. They are in the room now, but not—as you see—at the high table. The commander has developed what he refers to as 'moral objections' to being seated with the best society." 

Draco nodded. "At our Ministry, we did occasionally come across similar attitudes." His face was tightly controlled, but Harry remembered what he meant: the Christmas party, and Ron, refusing to sit at the same table as a Malfoy. In the end, they'd compromised that year (Draco found an engagement somewhere else for most of the time), and after that, they'd been much more tactful about the seating arrangements. Or—one crazy year—not had seating arrangements at all, due to a sudden rash of escapes from Azkaban, all of whom were conveniently caught by the end of January. 

Harry had his suspicions about who might have been to blame for that, but he'd never managed to prove anything, even with Mad-Eye Moody's help. 

"It occurs in all political circles…" Vetinari said, and then stopped, looking sharply across the room at a sudden apparition. 

* * * 

It was, technically speaking, a wizzard. It said so on its hat. 

It seemed to have been running: its feet were bare, its breath came in gasps and its hat was soaked from the rain outside, causing the brim to hang even further down and lend it an air of dangerous madness. 

"Rincewind?" Ponder said into the silence, stunned. 

The apparition nodded. 

"I… I… I… " he stuttered. 

"Take a deep breath, Rincewind," Vetinari instructed. Nobody in the room, hearing the tone of voice, was surprised when Rincewind managed to obey. 

"Good. Now tell me—" Vetinari leaned forward across the table, and Rincewind staggered a little closer, "—what is it?" 

"Big," Rincewind said, quite calmly, and then started to hyperventilate again. His whole body was shaking. He seemed about to… 

Harry hurried around the table and caught him as he fell, seeing that no-one else was going to. 

He had the distinct impression that Draco had said something about "idiot Gryffindors who had to be helpful" as he passed. 

"Tell me," Harry said, turning Rincewind to face him. Vetinari seemed about to complain about this sudden usurping of his power, but Harry's air of command, though very different in character to his own, was pretty damn commanding. 

Secretly, Draco was a little impressed by that. 

"Tell me what it is, Rincewind," Harry said kindly to the shaking man. "It's a big…" 

"Black," Rincewind said. 

Harry nodded, and smiled just enough to show that he was pleased with Rincewind, without suggesting that he was taking this information in any way lightly. "A big, black…" 

"Nasty, evil, stinking, tall, thing," Rincewind finished. 

Harry nodded again. "Where is it?" 

"Outside the city walls. And trying to come in." 

A skinny balding man wearing a smart yet practical Watch uniform appeared at Harry's elbow. "Which gate? Who's there?" he asked. 

"Captain Carrot's there, Commander," Rincewind said, "Not at a gate as such. More… the wall. End of Ankh Street." 

"I have to go down there and see what's happening." 

"No, you don't, Commander Vimes. You could delegate someone else to do it." 

Vimes stared at Vetinari for a moment, and Harry wondered wildly what exactly the subtext of this situation was—but then Vimes was nodding. "I could, sir, but I choose not to. Excuse me, sir." 

"That, I will not do," Vetinari said, his voice ringing through the room as Vimes turned to leave. "In recent months, I've been feeling a little out of touch with my city. I shall accompany you." 

"As shall I," Draco said, standing as the Patrician did so. His tone brooked no argument. 

Harry caught his eye briefly, and then looked at Rincewind, ignoring the murmurs which sprang up throughout the busy room. "Show us the way, lad," he said gently. "The way you came will do, I'm sure." 

* * * 

Walking through the city as part of the relief column—they stopped for support at Pseudopolis Yard—was a strange experience for Harry. He'd marched with armies before, but always at their head or as their hero. That place was now filled by Vetinari, because this was his city if it was anyone's. 

Vimes, Harry saw, would disagree with that. He'd sent his wife home—"Make sure the dragons don't add to our trouble"—and walked at Vetinari's side, close behind Rincewind. He walked like a man who owned the streets he walked on, not through any law or deeds, but simply because he knew them so well. 

Harry himself stayed by Rincewind's side, aware that he seemed to need the support—and someone to stop him running away. Harry knew how that felt. He had a feeling he might have run away from the final battle with Voldemort if Neville hadn't been there to cheer him on. 

Citizens flocked out to see what was happening—Harry noticed rich and poor, young and old, at least one assassin slipping along the rooftops above them, a watchman who was having trouble keeping his arm on, and a man who seemed to be a beggar with a duck on his head. He also realised that he'd stopped noticing Ankh-Morpork's Smell, the fame of which Ponder had been at some pains to point out earlier in the day. 

He didn't know where Ponder was—in the rush and the excitement, he'd lost track of him. 

Ponder, by contrast, had a very good idea where he was. And he didn't like it. 

"Come on, come on," Mustrum Ridcully said to him, taking him by the arm and frog-marching him through the streets. "We're wizards, you know. Got to be seen to be helping out in an emergency." 

"Helpful… very helpful… back at UU," Ponder gasped, but Ridcully ignored him. 

The column walked on, following Rincewind and casting nervous glances up to the sky, waiting for their first glimpse of the big, black whatever-it-was. 

* * * 

Standing on the wall, high above where Ankh Street met Endless Street, Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson and Sergeant Delphine Angua von Uberwald were surveying the landscape. Mostly, there were suburbs, dense and dirty rows of houses which stretched away until, in the middle distance, they turned into dense and dirty rows of cabbages. 

There was one exception. Directly in front of them, nursing a series of cuts on his arm, was a tall man-shaping thing swathed in a black robe. His feet—Carrot had assumed 'he' from the voice and apparent shape, and Angua's nose tended to agree—were carefully placed in the streets, though they'd knocked the upper stories of a couple of buildings off on the way down. The roofs clustered around his knees, much like tall grass stems. 

Shortly above that, his legs disappeared into the folds of black wool he was cloaked in. After that, he went on up… and up… and up… until Carrot was craning his neck back to see the giant's head—his face was hidden in further folds of cloak. Carrot could see why people were panicking, although he wasn't. The giant was scary, and very good at looming. 

* * * 

They puffed their way up the stairs to the top of the wall, preceded by Vimes and the younger members of the Watch. Harry, looking around him, thought, we're old. All of us. If I and Draco are seventy, Ponder must be fifty, Vetinari's slightly older than me—seventy-five?—and Ridcully's older than that. Maybe these wizards have got some sort of life-prolonging potion…[1]

Draco caught his wandering glance and grabbed his hand. Harry wasn't sure what Draco thought he'd been thinking, but he smiled to reassure him that he hadn't actually been thinking anything of the sort. 

Behind them, Ponder was worried. Through the narrow streets, they'd had occasional glimpses of the black figure, but not enough to really tell what it was. The moment of truth was approaching, and Ponder had seen enough truths in his life time to consider the possibility that it would be better to stay in the dark. 

* * * 

"Report?" Vimes demanded the instant he was within hearing distance of Carrot. 

"He's big and dressed in black, sir," Carrot reported. "And he's got a strange accent—not one I've heard before." 

"You spoke to it?" Vetinari sounded surprised, and rather unimpressed by the fifty-four foot cloaked man demanding entrance to his city. 

Carrot nodded. "Yes, your lordship. For what I understood, I think he's requesting asylum." 

"He won't fit," Vimes said, and then, "Please tell me I don't have to offer him a representative on the Watch." 

Before Vetinari could reply, Draco asked, "Did you find out why he's dressed in black?" He was coming up behind them, closely followed by Harry and Ponder. 

"No, sir," Carrot said, which earned him a crocodile smile from Draco and an unnoticed glare from Harry, who knew that Draco could be insufferable if he got too much of that sort of treatment. 

"Ask him, on my behalf, to show his face," Vetinari said. "And what his name is." 

Carrot took a deep breath, and Vimes, who'd heard Carrot shout before, took a hasty step backwards. "ON BEHALF OF THE PATRICIAN OF ANKH-MORPORK, LORD VETINARI, I REQUEST THAT YOU SHOW YOUR FACE!" 

The giant bent down a little closer to listen, and then he seemed to be considering the request. 

On top of the wall, even the air became tense. Everyone held their breath—except for Harry, who was still panting from the climb. 

After a moment Carrot broke the silence. He whispered, a little louder than needed, to Vimes: "I'm sorry his arm got hurt, sir. Detritus got a bit carried away." 

Vimes nodded shortly, because the giant was moving. With his uninjured arm, he lifted the fold of cloth of his head and, without moving his feet, bowed. "Name's Dangre, yer ken," he rumbled. 

Ponder thought he felt the ground shake, and then his attention was drawn to Harry and Draco. Harry looked shaken (and not, Ponder thought, just by the physical tremor), and Draco had started to put a comforting arm around his shoulders, but Harry had stepped away from the attempted embrace. Ponder's never-ending curiosity stored the movement away for future investigation. 

Harry stared up at Dangre, the semi-familiar heavy features and the confident stance, so close to one he'd known and yet so different. "He's a giant, your lordship," he said, without looking at Vetinari. 

"I can see that for myself, Mr Potter. The question is, where is he from?" 

As the only giants Harry had met or even hard of before were from the Alps, which he had established didn't exist in this world, or at least these people's known world, he didn't have an answer to that. "Let me talk to him," he said, stepping forward without waiting for a reply. 

The giant, apparently seeing the movement, bent in for a closer look. His breath, warm and slightly garlic-tinged, washed over them. 

"Hi," Harry said, slightly lamely, and reached up to adjust his glasses. 

Draco, watching the slightly awkward gesture, wanted to step forward, touch Harry's arm, and let him know that he had support, but after being shrugged away earlier (and knowing why—he'd killed Hagrid midway through the war, under threat of death, but he thought Harry had never quite forgiven him for it), he didn't quite dare. 

Only Ponder was watching Draco as the emotions flitted across his face—the others were glued to the spectacle of a grey-haired and bespectacled wizard, staring down an invading giant. Without even sliding the wand out of his sleeve. 

Dangre stared at Harry. Harry stared back, trying not to start working out if he was taller than Dangre's nose. 

"Po'er?" the giant asked, frowning. "Harrry Po'er?" 

Harry nodded. "You've heard of me?" 

"'oo hasn'?" 

Harry shrugged. That was too long a conversation for the time being. "Where are you from?" 

Dangre screwed up his face in thought, and then replied, "You folks call it Him-ee-lay-ers." 

"Why did you come here?" 

The giant's frown deepened, and he shook his head. "Um… place." 

"Never mind," Harry smiled. "How? Which way?" 

Dangre leaned a little further forward, until his chin was only feet from the top of the wall. Everyone except Harry stepped back. The silence was complete for an instant, and then the giant's voice rumbled out again. "Over cab'age field. Down hill. From fire in fo'est. Wen in ta res'ue wife's-sister's-daigh'er, could'na find 'er, came ou' 'ere." 

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "We'll find a way to get you home." 

Draco coughed, and muttered "stupid Gryffindor" under the cover of it. 

Dangre nodded and straightened up, out of earshot. Harry turned towards Draco and Ponder. "An accidental connection to the Floo network, about the time we came through. Poor fellow; at least we had a choice." 

"Excuse me," Vetinari said. "Will this attempt to get him 'home' involve my people?" 

"I hope so," Harry replied. "I'm sure you feel as much responsibility for lost and injured creatures as I do." 

Draco looked at the stand-off, and decided he didn't want his lover hanged for attempting to force the Patrician into something. "Excuse me," he said, taking Harry's elbow. "May I have a word in private?" 

Harry stared at him, but nodded, and Vetinari turned away to speak to the watchmen. And woman and werewolf. 

"Are you mad?" Draco hissed, quite a feat with such a non-sibilant sentence. "The last thing we want to do is be associated with a threat to the city!" 

"I'm only going to try and help," Harry said. Draco rolled his eyes—nice blue-grey expressive eyes, Harry thought, with a nostalgic pang for a time where he could just stare into them, as rival or lover. 

"Help? Help? We'll only make it worse!" 

Harry drew himself up to his full height—a whole inch taller than Draco—and said, "You might, but I'm going to help," knowing as he said it that the tone confirmed the Sorting Hat's opinion of his suitability for Slytherin. 

Hurt by the tone, Draco stepped back. "In your own hands be it," he said. Harry detected the ghost of a carefully-controlled pout. 

Sighing—this was not how he'd envisaged Draco's seventieth birthday playing out—but set in his course, Harry turned to Ponder. "We need to do some research, and find a fire big enough to get him in—it's the same principle as the fireplace and your gadget, only I've got a magic powder that will do it. 

"You have Floo powder with you?" Draco asked, eyebrow raised. 

"Carry some everywhere with me—being prepared, you know," Harry explained. 

Draco snorted. "Typical." 

"Also useful," Harry grinned. "Look, Ponder, it's not that difficult, if we can get it right." 

Ridcully, who had wandered across to join the Patrician-and-Watch huddle, called, "Mr Stibbons?" 

"Yes, Archchancellor?" Ponder said, when he'd recovered from the shock. 

The two groups melded into one. "Lord Vetinari—and Commander Vimes—are very keen to have…" Ridcully paused, and waved a hand vaguely in the giant's direction. 

"Dangre," Harry supplied. 

"Dangre well away from the city," Ridcully finished. 

"Without incurring further damage to property, citizens, or visitors," Vetinari added. "Even those outside the city walls." 

"There are actually three things to do," Harry said, and something in the way he stood and spoke made them all listen to him. Draco thought, with a sort of pride, that somewhere along the line he'd learned how to command troops. "One, get Dangre away from the city. Two, protect him from irate citizens whose property he's accidentally damaged. Three, find a way to send him home." 

"With magic?" Angua asked. She sounded doubtful. 

"Of course, young lady," said Ridcully importantly. "Wizards are useful for some things, you know." 

Carrot, eager to prevent detailed discussion of the point, put in, "I'll volunteer to take command of a Watch detail to complete objectives one and two. Sir." It wasn't entirely clear, even to Carrot, to whom the remark was addressed, but 'sir' seemed to cover all the bases. 

"Good plan," Vimes said. "Take about five men—I'll handpick them—and take him carefully out to the edge of the fields. You can wait there." He added, "If that's okay, sir?" 

The Patrician appeared to think it was time he was involved. "Very good, commander. Archchancellor, Mr Stibbons, would you be kind enough to provide Mr Potter with whatever he requires?" 

"Of course," Ridcully said, and Ponder nodded. 

"A map of the surrounding area, to start with," Harry said. "Please." 

"UU library," Ponder suggested, and Vetinari nodded encouragingly. They departed—Vimes, Carrot, and Angua to order Watchmen about, Ponder, Harry, and Ridcully to UU, with Draco tagging along behind.

  


* * *

[1] What Harry didn't know was that although UU had, over the years, experimented with a series of such potions, they hadn't been that successful. They were still giving one to the Bursar twice a day, along with dried frog pills when needed, because it stopped him panicking every time he smelt mustard, but had given up on the rest. The reason for Mustrum Ridcully's continued life was obscure. The Faculty, aware that when Ridcully died they'd probably be back in a cycle of assassinations and in-fighting, didn't mention it on the grounds that they might jinx it; and the student body was of the opinion that he was simply too pig-headed to let anything as simple as death prevent his continued hearty 'fun'.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four: L-space; Or A Night's Work Over Many Years) 

_"Ook." - The Librarian, Unseen University_

The sun had set and the main gates were firmly closed when they arrived, but both Ridcully and Ponder had been students at the University and made for the hole in the wall without thinking about it. 

"This is what you have in place of a secret passageway?" asked Harry as he clambered through the stones. 

Ponder nodded. "Saves trouble all round." 

Also apparently without thinking about it, Ridcully turned left at the next corridor. Ponder turned right. 

"Where is he going?" asked Harry wonderingly. Draco said nothing; the long trek across the foetid streets of Ankh-Morpork had silenced him almost as effectively as various other methods Harry cared to mention. 

"Kitchens," said Ponder. Off Harry's look, he continued: "He's probably gone to get something to eat."

Harry glanced at his watch. It didn't help him much. Telling time in an alternate dimension (or whatever this was) was presumably not something it had been designed to do. He settled for saying, "Something to eat? At this time?"

Ponder frowned. "Are you sure you're a wizard?"

"Yes!"

"Sorry, just saying…"

They were still walking as they talked, and their voices echoed in the late-night quiet. The winding passages reminded Harry of Hogwarts. He could feel the sense of raw history, the weight of years whispering through the stones in the walls. It was eerily familiar.

Ponder led them into the Library. It had been a part of his life for almost half a century, and so he never thought of the effect it might have on those who had never laid eyes on it before. He had to wait for Harry and Draco to catch up with him; they were walking slowly, eyes roaming around the books, row upon row, shelf upon shelf, dimension upon dimension, and up above them the glory of the great glass dome, currently letting in the light of a thousand stars. 

Harry in particular was looking up, straight through the glass to the sky above, and Ponder grinned. "It's impressive," he said, "but it's never been the same since Commander Vimes fell through it."

He didn't wait for Harry to reply. Casting his eyes around, he searched for anything that resembled a peacefully snoring bundle of red-orange fur, but in the end he gave up and called, "Librarian!"

They didn't have long to wait. After a moment, the Librarian knuckled slowly across the floor, making his way through the shelves. "Ook?" he inquired, a little crossly.

"Sorry," Ponder apologised. "We're having a bit of a crisis. There's a giant outside the city walls and Lord Vetinari isn't very happy about it."

"Ook," the Librarian replied, and Ponder nodded.

"What did he say?" Harry asked, but before Ponder could reply, Draco cut him off.

"He didn't _say_ anything! He's just a monk-… _mmf_."

Harry watched bemusedly as Ponder withdrew his hand from Draco's mouth. "Sorry," Ponder said again. "I mean… well, you would have regretted saying that."

The Librarian nodded sagely, and Draco, seeing the way the light shone in the ape's dark eyes, decided not to pursue the point. 

* * *

The Librarian was not the only one who objected to being woken.

+++Incorrect Temporal Parameters. Redo From Start+++

"Sorry," apologised Ponder yet again.

Hex whirred, and inside, the termites began to scurry along their appointed pathways. The clicking of the springs and the teeth-grinding of the mouse settled into familiar background noise, and Ponder sighed. Linking Hex with the Library had provided the perfect excuse to load the thinking engine onto castors and carefully wheel it out of the High Energy Magic building and into the more familiar surroundings of the Library itself.

Ponder could never rid himself of the idea that Hex was slowing becoming more than the sum of its parts, and the loud snoring coming from somewhere within the confines of the machine had not done much to dispel his fears. Happily, the stentorian sounds turned out to be emanating from the vicinity of one Big Mad Drongo.

"Waah?" he said intelligently, curled up somewhere underneath the keyboard. His expression suggested that it was, without a shadow of a doubt, four fifteen in the afternoon, and if perchance it wasn't four fifteen in the afternoon, it _ought_ to be.

"Harry, Draco, this is Adrian Turnipseed," said Ponder, helplessly. "He's… not at his best at the moment."

"Waah," agreed Adrian, and went back to sleep. Hex's mouse nibbled at his hair.

"Ah," said Harry faintly.

Draco sniffed. "I thought we had work to do," he said pointedly.

Ponder was suddenly businesslike. "Yes, we do," he replied. "As I see it, our multi-dimensionally-enhanced friend out there arrived here in much the same way as you did. Is that not the case?"

Harry was suddenly aware that this was going to be a long night, and sat down on the floor. "Yes," he said. "We call it Floo powder. You throw it into the fireplace, state your destination clearly, and then step into the flames."

"Wait a moment," Draco interjected, propping himself up on his elbows. "Floo powder works because we have a Floo network. Fireplaces all connected together," he added with a glance at Ponder, "and you can't travel outside the network. You have to link fireplaces before you can travel between them."

Ponder noticed Draco was much more pleasant when he was explaining things. Aloud, he said, "I don't suppose the High Energy Magic building is on the network?"

"No," Harry said, "which isn't to say we're the first visitors from our world to end up here. We might well not be."

"I agree," said Ponder thoughtfully. "Down in the Street of Cunning Artificers, there used to be a supposed portal to another world. If you went through the doorway, you came out somewhere that wasn't on the Disc."

"Where was it?" asked Harry.

"I'm not entirely sure," said Ponder honestly. "According to the university records, the doorway wasn't open for very long and there wasn't much time to explore the other side. I think it was a place called… Wincanton. Yes, Wincanton."

"I think I've heard of it," said Harry, interested. "It sounds like it's in our world."

"Really?" replied Ponder eagerly. "Maybe we can find out…"

"We're getting sidetracked," interrupted Draco impatiently and little too loudly. Adrian twitched at the noise, then rolled over and started snoring again. The Librarian gave them all a stern look from his perch on the top of a bookshelf.

"You're right." Harry sighed. "I'm worried about how we're going to do this. We don't have enough Floo powder to send a giant home, and we don't have any way of getting more."

"Is that true?" Ponder asked. "Can we not synthesise it somehow? What's it made of?"

"Lithium salts," said Draco unexpectedly. Off their looks, he added, "What?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing."

Ponder ignored the exchange. "Lithium…" he said thoughtfully. "I don't think I know what that is."

"Maybe you do, but you call it something else," Harry suggested. "Parallel evolution, you know."

"It'll be in the Library." Ponder clapped his hands together, and the Librarian's ears pricked up at the mention of books. "The Librarian will know where to start, at least; he can help you try and find something you recognise in the books. I'll deal with Hex…

"No, you won't!"

They all looked up. Ponder turned towards the newcomer with a smile. "Gytha."

She glared at him. "Professor Stibbons, where's Hex? What have you done with it?"

"It's here," Ponder said, taking a step to one side and revealing the thinking engine, artistically decorated with Big Mad Drongo.

She sniffed, and joined Harry and Draco in sitting on the floor. "There wasn't any need to move it," she stated. "Why are you all up so late?"

Ponder resisted the urge to reciprocate the question. "We're doing some research," he said, and felt moved to explain fully. She listened patiently, and then a certain gleam appeared in her eyes.

Harry, thinking of Hermione in younger days, wasn't at all surprised to see her striding off between the bookshelves, leaving professor, ape and thinking engine floundering in her wake.

* * *

Some time later, Ponder's personality seemed to be slowly intertwining with that of Hex. He had a distracted, enthusiastic look in his eyes that incongruously reminded Harry of Remus Lupin as a teacher.

Gytha and the Librarian were no longer within calling distance. They had last been seen heading off in search of the Lost Reading Room, or something along those lines. Harry said as much to Ponder.

"Good," replied his son without looking up. "Maybe they'll find out what happened to last year's expedition."

Before Harry could comment on this, a muffled screech made him leap to his feet. "Draco!"

Dreamily, Ponder watched him go. "He's my father, you know," he said wonderingly, trying out the words.

Hex clicked, and the pen started moving.

+++Irrelevant. Resistance Is Futile+++

"Waah," said Adrian.

"Oh, shut up," said Ponder. 

* * *

Three shelves away, Harry skidded to a halt. In a gap on the lowermost shelf, Draco was lying on the floor and thrashing wildly. "Harry!" he yelled.

"What happened?" Harry asked, kneeling to be with eye-level with him.

"I was just looking," Draco said incoherently, "just looking, and I pulled a book, and he, and he…"

Harry grabbed him by the hands and pulled. "And who?"

"Him!" Draco rolled over and pointed.

Curled up on the floor in the gap was another wizard. He had the word "Wizzard" on his hat. "Rincewind," said Harry knowledgably.

"Rincewind?" said another voice. It was Ponder, apparently come to see what all the noise was about. "Oh, it's all right, he's Deputy Librarian."

"Should he be doing that?" Draco asked, extending a shaking index finger. Rincewind, eyes tightly closed, was gasping for air, limbs scrabbling against empty air.

"It's all right," said Ponder again. "That just shows he's dreaming."

That said, he wandered off towards Hex, leaving Harry with a disgruntled Draco. Harry smiled. "It was _your_ idea to come here," he said smoothly, and walked away.

* * *

Some time later than that, the Librarian and Gytha came back. Ponder extricated himself with some difficulty from Hex, and in so doing caught the student's attention. "Professor Stibbons!" she exclaimed. "What did you do with the imp-mail system?"

"It was… ah… mislaid in the transfer from the HEM," he told her. "It can be reinstated with practically no trouble at all."

Harry grinned; he had reason to believe the components of said system had been given to the Librarian to quietly dispose of. Ape, human and human stared impassively into space until Gytha was forced to give it up. "The Librarian's had an idea," she said, changing the subject.

"Ook," agreed the Librarian.

"What is it?" Ponder asked.

"Ook. Ook, ook. Eeek."

"Ah," said Ponder, and with a brief smile, turned to Harry. Draco was sitting on the floor, not listening. "Harry… are you familiar with the concept of L-space?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't think so. Should I be?"

"Probably not. I could give you a lengthy explanation about large collections of books and relative thaumaturgical concentrations…"

"Ook!" interjected the Librarian, clearly in favour.

"…but it would take up too much time. What it boils down to is, all libraries are connected. Particularly magical libraries. If you know what you're doing – and even if I don't, Hex and the Librarian certainly do – you can get your hands on any book ever written in the multiverse, even books that haven't been written _yet_."

Draco jerked to attention. "Does that mean that we could take a book out from _anywhere?_"

Ponder nodded. "Theoretically, yes. It would help if we knew exactly which book we were looking for."

Harry grinned. "Good enough."

* * *

Elsewhere in the multiverse, Madam Pince was settling down at her desk. Monday morning, and the first students of the week would be in after breakfast. She had sharpened her quill in readiness for the week's batch of overdue notices.

As it happened, it was not a student who walked through the door first, but a teacher, walking slowly and silently. Madam Pince was grudgingly approving. Not many people knew how to behave in a library nowadays.

"Professor," she said, nodding at him.

"Madam," he returned, eyes twinkling. "How are you this fine morning?"

"I'm well, thank you. Can I help you with anything?"

There weren't many people the librarian _volunteered_ to help, and the professor smiled to himself. "No, thank you. Just browsing. Has Severus been in?"

"Professor Snape is still at breakfast," she told him.

"Good, good. He will insist on attempting to teach first-years the most complex potions, and then he complains when they accidentally destroy his classroom. I wonder, are there any books on how to unstick children from the ceiling?"

Madam Pince didn't reply. She was too busy letting her mouth drop open.

Another professor, a first-year with no house insignia, an elderly gentleman with a scar on his forehead, and a large, orange-furred orang-utan had materialised by a bookshelf. The elderly man immediately disappeared, running off in search of something.

"Sorry," apologised one of them. "Just passing through – Harry, hurry up! – sorry for the inconvenience, we'll be on our way now…"

And they were. Harry reappeared within a second, holding a book, and with a _pop_, they all disappeared into thin air.

After a second, Madam Pince recovered her powers of speech. "You can't Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts grounds!" she exclaimed, sitting heavily on her chair. "Did you ever see such a thing? And was that a _monkey?_"

Remus Lupin smiled to himself. "It was an orang-utan," he said gently. "Don't call him a monkey, he doesn't like it. Would you like a glass of water?"

"What? Oh… yes, please…"

He went to get her one, but took a brief detour through the shelves on his way, looking for a newly-appeared gap in the books. When he found it, he smiled again, and headed off towards the kitchens.

* * *

"Who were they?" Ponder asked when they arrived back at UU.

"Madam Pince," said Harry thoughtfully, "she's the Hogwarts' librarian, and that was Remus Lupin… he's an old friend of my dad's."

"My grandfather?" Ponder asked unnecessarily, just to hear himself ask

Harry nodded, and would have said more, but Gytha interrupted. "Let's see the book," she said impatiently. Harry held it out, and she read, "_Out Of The Frying Pan And Into The Fire: Travelling By Floo_."

"By Hermione Granger," Harry said, grinning. "Another old friend."

Draco sniffed. "This particular old friend has a book in every single Dewey Decimal category, even the Muggle ones. The woman is _obsessed_."

"Obsessed with what?" asked Gytha, interested.

"Nothing in particular. Just obsessed."

"She's a good writer, though," Gytha observed. She was already well into Chapter One.

"Glad to hear it," said Draco. "Now, can we finally start getting somewhere?"

Ponder nodded emphatically. "Hex will want to read that too, Gytha. But yes; we should be making headway now."

* * *

They did. By the time the golden-syrup Disc dawn was making itself felt across the grey Ankh-Morpork sky, they had made their plans. Along the way, Ponder had fallen asleep across Hex and on top of Big Mad Drongo, Gytha had fallen asleep on the pages of _Out Of The Frying Pan_, and Harry had fallen asleep on top of Draco on top of Rincewind.

That meant that only the Librarian was awake to answer the low knocking at the door.

He knuckled across the floor to answer it. The sound gave Ponder a push towards consciousness. "Waah?"

Underneath him, Adrian moved and rolled over. Ponder grabbed at the nearest thing that came to hand, which was Hex's mouse. It squeaked indignantly and Ponder swore under his breath. "If that's Ridcully…"

Gytha's eyes were the next to open, and being closer to the door, she could confirm that barring overnight accidents, it wasn't Ridcully. It was a boy with long blonde hair, about nineteen years old. The Librarian moved to let him in, but the moment he stepped over the threshold, the books began to protest. Pages fluttered, spines cracked, and the occasional volume leapt from the shelves. Gytha understood their reaction – the boy most likely didn't have a magical bone in his body. The Librarian seemed less than amused; standing up, he shouted, "Ook!"

The books fell silent and were still. The Librarian delivered a glare all round and sat down again.

Ponder yawned, rubbing at his eyes. "Morning, Sam," he said, realising that he would have to make introductions; they were never the Librarian's strong point. "Harry, Draco, Gytha… this is Sam Vimes."

Draco's brow furrowed. "But Commander Vimes…"

"He's my dad," explained the boy, grinning. "I'm named after him, of course." He paused to look around him, and said in a different tone, "You've been busy."

"You could say that, yes," Harry replied dryly. "It's been an interesting night."

"That's what Mum thought," said Sam. "She says, come for breakfast. She sent me to fetch you all."

"Me, too?" asked Gytha, lifting her head.

"Of course." He smiled at her and she blushed slightly. "Shall we go?"


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five: A Romantic Breakfast For Twelve (With Horsemeat) 

_"When there is no full moon, a werewolf is as harmless as any other human."_ _- Newt Scamander, Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_

It took some time to clear up the mess and persuade Rincewind the world wasn't ending, but the sun was barely up by the time Sam and the researchers were trudging across the streets of Ankh-Morpork. The first people were making their way out onto the streets, and the zombies, werewolves and vampires were crawling back into the shadows. The rosy half-light made the city seem almost pleasant; if you turned your head and squinted, the Ankh looked like it was made of water. Ponder was almost proud, in a twisted, perverse sort of way. His parents, or parent, might have been absent for almost half a century, but he'd made a life for himself. This, this _place_, this frantic cesspool of a city, frothing with life and magic, was his _home_. He belonged here. 

Along with quite a lot of other things, he reflected, looking at the dragons scampering in the yard outside the Vimes' house. It was strangely comforting to think that even if they didn't manage to get Dangre home, he'd find a way to fit in eventually.

"Come in, come in," Sybil Vimes insisted. "Hurry along—the food's getting cold already."

Commander Vimes was there already, tucking right into his breakfast. By his side sat Vetinari, making the butler nervous and looking remarkably comfortable.

"Sit down, sit down," Sybil said, bustling them into seats. "Have some sausages."

Ridcully, who had almost miraculously appeared as they left the UU grounds[1], took a seat and plunged into the food with gusto, while the others hung back a little. The Librarian scorned the table, heading for the sideboard where a basket of fruit was quickly stripped of its bananas.

"No dragons at the table," Sybil said, swatting a scaly nose out the door. "Except for Mr Malfoy, of course. Go on, people, tuck in."

Sam Vimes junior graciously pulled a chair out for Gytha Ogg, and she sat down. Ponder—encouraged by the familiar sight of Ridcully stuffing his face—joined them, and finally Draco, Harry and Rincewind took courage and entered the fray.

For a brief moment there was near-silence: the scraping of plates, the chink of cutlery, and the chewing of twelve sets of jaws were the only sounds.

Then Sybil stopped, cocking her head to listen. She took a deep breath, reached one hand under the table, and hauled, emerging triumphant with a small dragon's greenish head in one hand. She looked at it sternly. "No. Dragons. At. The. Table," she said, and glared at her husband and son.

They looked back at her, their faces pictures of innocence. Harry was amused to note that both Draco and Vetinari automatically assumed the same expression.

Once Sybil had thrown the dragon out, with further glaring and a touch of symbolic door-banging, she set to chairing the meeting. "So, what are you going to do about this giant, then?" she asked, looking at Vimes. 

Vimes looked at Vetinari, who turned an enquiring gaze on Ridcully.

Ridcully glanced up from his food and tilted his head towards Ponder before returning to the more important matter on his plate.

Ponder received the full weight of seven pairs of eyes, and paled. He shot a helpless look at Gytha, who was fully occupied pretending not to return Sam's interested stares, and then turned to the Librarian, who took it upon himself to explain.

"Ook," he said. "Ook, ook ook eek."

Sybil nodded. "That's not good enough though, is it?" she said to the room at large. "What you need is a *plan*."

Harry and Draco, veterans of planning meetings, cleared their throats in unison, and then stopped, glancing at each other and trying to decide who should take precedence.

In the ensuing pause, Vetinari spoke. "Don't worry, Lady Sybil. I'm sure the fine and educated gentlemen from the University—aided by Miss Ogg, of course—will conceive and execute the best possible course of action. With the Watch's assistance."

"Of course," Vimes said. "It's just a matter of telling me what you need."

* * *

Waving the travellers off was quite a performance. A crowd—jeering, cheering, shouting, pickpocketing, profiteering, and stinking—gathered at the city gate. Vetinari was there, Sybil by his side; Sam was there, preparing to mourn the loss of his love in full traditional teenage angst mode. Ridcully was there, accompanied by a wide cross-section of the UU faculty. Those of the Watch who were staying behind formed a guard of honour—part good luck gesture, part protection—and they were off in style.[2] 

Gytha, who came from Lancre and was being exceptionally bossy, rode in front. Behind her, Vimes headed the watchmen: himself, Carrot, Angua, and Reg Shoe at the back. Dangre, having been unable to sleep all night, had picked his ways back to the city walls early that morning and was now somewhere in their midst, depending on which foot he was standing on—horses from anywhere other than Ankh-Morpork would have bolted. 

After the watchmen came the wizards: Harry and Draco sharing a horse because Harry had never learned to ride, and then Ponder with the Librarian behind him because the saddlemaker had never learned how to make them for orang-utans. Finally, Rincewind finished the parade, with the many-legged squat figure of the Luggage trotting along behind him. The position made him feel a little nervous, because if—or when—he wanted to run, the people in front would block his way.

On the other hand, Ankh-Morpork was at his back, and it wasn't such a bad place to run to.

For a while, they travelled through the suburbs—places where Dangre had to set his feet down carefully for fear of killing someone—but after about half an hour they were in real farming country, with only the occasional farmhouse to avoid. The giant's feet raised a stink to rival that of the city as they crushed hundreds of cabbages in a stride. Gradually, the sun climbed higher in the sky, and with the growing warmth the strict processional order relaxed.

"So, you're a werewolf?" Draco said conversationally to Angua.

"And you're a wizard. Got a point?"

Draco tensed a little at the tone, and grinned. Harry, feeling the tension, raised his head rapidly from its resting place on Draco's shoulder, and said, "I'm sure Draco only meant to comment on how happy he is—we are—to see that werewolves' rights are another area of parallel evolution."

Angua, interested by the connotations of that statement but unwilling to cast her city into a bad light (at least in front of outsiders), said, "Haven't your werewolves always been treated well, then?"

"Sadly not," Harry said, shaking his head. "Until after the war, when I managed to start getting reforms made, werewolves were another of those groups that suffered badly from prejudice. Remus Lupin, for example…"

"Prejudice is one of the worst evils in the world today," Reg Shoe cut in, hearing a key word. "The things some zombies go through are…"

At the same time, Ponder said, "Remus Lupin? The man who was in the library?"

"Yes," said Harry and Draco at once, to both of them. They both took deep breaths to go on from there, sensed this, and both paused; then Harry said, "Yes, Ponder. That was Remus Lupin—a werewolf, a good man, and the best teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts I—and for that matter, Neville—ever had. He's dead now."

Vimes, listening to the conversation from a few yards ahead, cast a sidelong glance towards Angua, but nothing showed on her face.

"Lupin?" Vimes said instead. "Wasn't that the name of the man we found confused in an alleyway, and took to UU?"

Carrot nodded. "That's right, sir—four years ago now. Remus Lupin was his name—I'm sorry to hear he died not long after that."

Harry shook his head. "He died, oh, getting on for seventeen years ago now."

"Tell me…" Ponder began, but then Gytha suddenly stopped her horse, and they were all occupied with not bumping into each other for several seconds.

"Damn," she said when they'd stopped. "Professor Stibbons, I'd ignored any problems of time we might have, assuming we were dealing with a steady-run parallel world; but if this man Lupin really was here four years ago, when he'd been dead twelve years in his own world, we might be dealing with a wavering association. We have to get Dangre—and Harry and Draco—home as soon as possible, or they might not arrive in the correct time frame. Did Lupin ever go missing?"

"Not so much so that we couldn't find him," Harry told her.

"Commander Vimes, how long was he here?"

"Less than twenty-four hours," Angua answered.

"And his friend—Sirius, I think?—was only here for fifteen minutes or so," Ponder added. "Though I think in the end the Archchancellor kept the bed. He has something of an obsession with four-posters."

Harry and Draco tried to fit that information into their world view, and failed. They weren't, however, given time for more questions—Gytha rattled off a stream of orders. "We need to start moving. They've been here nearly a day already; we might have less than eight hours before the worlds start to shift position again. I'll try and think of a way to measure that. Anyway—can these horses gallop?"

Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled her horse around and kicked it hard in the ribs. It took a leap and was off; the others followed in close succession.

They moved fast for the next three hours, as the distant mountains drew closer and the sun reached noon. Even Dangre was starting to feel the strain when they reached the shade of the first trees of the Forest of Skund, and paused for a rest.

"At least the trees are dry," Draco observed, quietly, to Harry. "If all else fails, they'll make a big enough blaze to send our big friend home in."

Harry nodded. "Yes. But let's leave the destruction of a place of natural beauty to the last choice, shall we?"

"Oh, shame," Draco said, straight-faced, but his grey eyes sparkled with life. Harry would never admit it, but this was a good plan from one angle: Draco was considerably happier than he had been the morning before.

Harry was about to lean over and kiss him, but Gytha's voice intruded on their private moment. "That's enough rest, people. We have to keep going—twenty-seven hours and counting!"

They mounted the tired horses and were off again, keeping to the shade of the forest as far as they could. Ponder, getting into the swing of bouncing along on a horse's back, steered his steed alongside Draco and Harry's, and asked, "We do have a plan, right?"

"If Gytha doesn't have one already, we'll think of one," Harry promised his son. "Draco knows how to make Floo powder, I know how it works, we can use other magic if we have to, and from what I've heard this Tracie Ogg is a pretty powerful witch, as well. We'll manage."

"If we're right about the lithium salts being available in Ramtop ores," Draco added. "If that's not that case, we're pretty much stuck here until we find another source."

He would have said more, but Gytha—who, without consultation, had become the group leader—heard them talking. "Don't waste breath!" she called over her shoulder, and kicked her mount once more.

They thought it prudent to obey her for the time being.

  


* * *

[1] It wasn't really a miracle. If they'd stopped to think about it for a moment, Ponder at least should have recalled the way the echoes of the University were carefully managed to relay any mention of food, anywhere in the building, directly to the Archchancellor's ears. This leads to much fun being had by all when some high-spirited students decide to have a midnight feast.

[2] As opposed to the burgers, which were off and in a bun.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six: If It Looks Like a Duck 

_"I make the tea." - Magrat Garlick, Queen of Lancre_

In Lancre Castle, Tracie Ogg was taking tea with her old friend, Magrat Garlick. They'd not been close as children—Magrat had always been much more interested in what Nanny Ogg was doing than in playing in the mud with Tracie and the others—but with age and maturity had come a casual friendship of the kind that served tea and biscuits on the balcony, looking out over the little village and down to the river and the forest.[1] 

"Have you heard from your eldest girl recently?" Magrat asked. "News from Ankh-Morpork seems slower these days." 

Tracie shook her head. "Not for nearly a month now," she replied, "and that was only a brief note to say she'd started work in this High Energy Magic place, and not to worry about her. I expect she's absolutely wrapped up in work at the moment." 

"I hear they're doing lots of interesting things there," Magrat agreed, and stared out over the Kingdom of Lancre. 

The Kingdom of Lancre wasn't doing anything very interesting and she started to turn away from the window when something caught her eye, and she gasped. "What's that? People—on horses—and…" 

"A giant," Tracie Ogg observed. 

"It looks like it, but—" 

"My Mam used to say, if it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, then it probably is an aquatic bird," Tracie said. "And to my mind, that there looks like a giant, and—" they paused to listen for a moment to the deep crashes as Dangre's feet knocked over the occasional tree, "it sounds like a giant." 

"I think," Magrat said, "that we'd better go down and see who they are. And tell Verence about it." 

* * * 

"It's quite simple, really, Ponder," Draco was saying with a languid wave of his hand as they rode into view of Lancre Castle. "We burn the ore, send it through the prism, and get Rincewind's picture imps to record the colour. 

That should tell us exactly what's in there, and from that we can obtain lithium salts—lithium silicate, in this case, which should work." 

"We're in Lancre," Gytha announced from the front of the party. "Draco, now would be your moment to start looking for rocks." 

"Shouldn't we ask someone for permission?" asked Carrot. 

Gytha shook her head. "It's only rocks—no one will miss them. Besides, I have a constitutional right to gather materials from the open hillsides."[2] 

Draco glanced around, and replied, "I've been keeping my eyes open on the way up—some of the ones in the river valley looked possible, but I haven't seen any real granite outcrops." 

"You are sure that granite is what you're looking for, aren't you?" Harry said anxiously. 

"Yes, Harry, I am," Draco told him in his most patronising tone. 

Ponder, having quickly learned the early signs of an argument, said quickly, "Which way now, Gytha?" 

"We'll go into the village," Gytha replied, "leaving Dangre and a couple of guards out here somewhere. Some of you can go and find something to eat—and I'll stop by and see my mother briefly—while a small party, including Draco, goes on up to the moors to find a good bit of granite to test." 

Draco snorted at this simplification, but Vimes nodded. "I'm sending a watchman up with them, too," he said. "No sense in someone getting hurt for lack of attention." 

"I'll go, sir," Carrot said. "I know the moors round here pretty well—my great-grandfather had a mine underneath them, and I used to play up on the tops." 

"Fine," Vimes said. "Draco, Carrot—anyone else for that party?" 

"Me," Harry and Ponder said at the same time. 

Vimes looked at them, and sighed. "Plenty of wizards, right. The Librarian, too?" 

"Ook." 

"Okay, then—" 

"Ook eek ook?" the Librarian enquired. 

"Yes, I expect they have fruit in the village. Gytha will be able to tell you," Ponder said, and then turned back towards Vimes. 

"Okay," Vimes repeated. "Gytha, the Librarian, Rincewind, and Angua for the village—the turn's just ahead, we'll stop out here." 

"Sir?" Gytha said, eyebrows raised. 

"Reg, Dangre, and I will be stopping out here, in hopes of not scaring the citizens to death," Vimes replied. 

"The Luggage will do that," Rincewind muttered sourly, aware that he wouldn't persuade it to stay outside the village if he went in. 

There was a short period of confusion as they sorted themselves out; the Librarian had to dismount and climb onto Gytha's horse, Gytha and Carrot had to have an animated discussion about where the best rock was to be found, and Vimes had to issue firms orders to his watchmen, but eventually they were ready to split up. And nearly managed it—but two women, one dressed in black with a tall pointed hat, and the other in a green dress rather too young for her—came striding down the road. 

"Gytha!" the women dressed in black shouted as soon as she recognised her, and ran to meet her daughter. 

"Mam!" Gytha said, leaping off the horse and knocking the Librarian off as she went. "It's good to see you!" They exchanged fierce hugs. 

The was another short confused scuffle, and then Gytha made the introductions. "Mam, Magrat, this is Commander Vimes, and Reg Shoe and Carrot and Angua—they're all part of the city's City Watch—and this is Professor Stibbons, who I told you about in my letter, and the Librarian, and these are Harry and Draco, and the giant is Dangre—they're all from a different world, and we're trying to get them home, and the man over there in the tatty purple robe is Rincewind, he's a wizard too. Everyone, this is my Mam, Tracie Ogg, and Magrat Garlick, who's Queen of Lancre, only she's also my godmother." 

"Thank you," Vimes said, when it became obvious that Gytha had run out of breath if not things to say. 

"So, you'll, err, be needing some help?" Magrat said. 

The company nodded vigorously. 

"What do you need?" she asked, dreading what the answer might be. 

"Food would be nice," Gytha told her, "and Draco wants granite, and… oh, the Librarian would like a banana…" 

Magrat sighed, and slipped into her role as if it were a mantle. "On behalf of the kingdom of Lancre, welcome," she stated, before relapsing back into plain Magrat Garlick. "Draco…" she paused, making sure she was looking at the right person, "if you want to find outcroppings of granite – I won't ask why – head out onto the moors." 

"Yes, your majesty," said Draco faintly, and Harry grinned to himself. Draco had spent his life dealing expertly with the nobility, aristocracy and landed gentry, but this was the first time he'd ever come face-to-face with a genuine monarch, and he was a little surprised by her _genuineness_. 

"Magrat, please," she said. "Ponder, Rincewind, welcome back. Librarian, it's nice to see you again – Verence keeps a banana palm in one of the greenhouses on the off-chance you might visit." 

"Ook," said the Librarian with deference, clearly deeply impressed. 

"Commander Vimes," Magrat continued. "I've heard a lot about you." 

Vimes had removed his helmet. His long-held dislike of the institution of the monarchy seemed to have lessened slightly; at any rate, he felt no urge to promptly depose the queen. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again when he remembered the most likely person to have told Magrat about him would be Lord Vetinari. 

"But don't let me keep you," finished Magrat, with a final glance and smile at the rest of the party. "I'm sure you have your own plans – I'll help in whatever way I can." 

"Thank you," said Gytha, speaking for the entire party and conscious for the first time in a long while of the fact that her innocuous, wet-hen godmother was a queen, but more than that, a mother and a witch, and had grown into her roles with grace. 

When Magrat and Tracie Ogg started to make their way down to the village, the Librarian, Angua and Gytha followed, Rincewind trailing behind. 

Harry, Draco and Ponder bid goodbye to Magrat, Carrot bowed, and they turned away from the village, heading up the steep path towards the moors. 

* * * 

Up on the green turf of the rising hills and falling dales, the air was colder, fresher, clearer. The kingdom of Lancre was set out below them, with its villages and farms set in forest and rock far down. Harry wished he could ride properly, just so he could ride down the curving slopes and allow the rushing air to make its way into his blood. 

Instead, he had to settle for the steady plodding of Draco's horse, making its slow way to the top. Ponder, who clearly hadn't inherited his horsemanship from either Harry or Neville, was ahead of them. No longer hindered by the weight of the Librarian, he had taken the opportunity to ride faster and with more grace, climbing the slope as if it were a horizontal plane. 

Carrot arrived just as the wizards met and dismounted. "Is everything all right?" he asked, looking all around for any sort of mortal peril. 

"Perfectly," Harry replied, looking up at the mounted watchman. "Thank you." 

"Glad to hear it," said Carrot without a trace of sarcasm, and turned and rode away. Harry knew he was riding around watching for anyone else who might be climbing the hill. Harry doubted there would be, but Carrot looked the type who always did his job. 

Harry turned to find Draco sitting on the ground, moodily prodding the grass with one finger. "This is useless," he said. "What am I supposed to do, dig up the entire place? There's no way of telling what the rock is." 

"It's not chalk," Ponder said. "Nor any kind of soft rock." 

"How can you be so sure?" Harry asked him. 

"Magrat's a witch," Ponder stated. "Witches don't live on chalk. Their magic doesn't work if they do." 

Something about the way he said it caught Harry's attention. "Are witches different from wizards, then?" he asked. 

"Yes, Harry," put in Draco. "I understand why you might not be aware of this, but their reproductive organs are on the _inside_." 

But Ponder wasn't listening. Staring at Harry, he seemed to have grasped the essence of the question. "Yes," he said definitively. "Witches are different from us." 

"But… Gytha…" 

Ponder laughed. "Gytha's not a _witch_." 

"What is she, then?" asked Harry reasonably. "A wizard?" 

"Well, I don't know. I suppose not, but she's not a witch. Magrat's a witch. Gytha's grandmother, Nanny Ogg, was a witch. Gytha isn't." 

Harry nodded slowly. "In our world, female wizards are called witches," he said. "My friend Hermione is a witch, but she does the same magic as me. Better than me," he added frankly. 

Ponder frowned. "It's different here. Does your friend have a staff?" 

"A wand, yes." 

Ponder sat down heavily on the turf. When he spoke, it was slowly and seriously. "If I'd been a girl, I wouldn't have been sent to UU. I'd have joined the Guild of Seamstresses." 

Harry blinked. "Can you sew?" 

"Um…" Ponder began, and blushed. Beside him, Draco seemed suspiciously close to choking. 

Harry tried to think of something else to say, but gave it up after a while. They sat there peacefully, the three of them, on the green grass on the roof of the world. 

* * * 

"Ook," said the Librarian. He was holding a small, half-green banana and staring at it as if it were the ambrosia of the gods. After a moment, he carefully peeled it and bit into it, eating it delicately, and a moment after that, he picked up the peel and ate that too. This accomplished, he rejoined the conversation. 

For once in his life, Rincewind had chosen dialogue over flight. "No," he said again. 

"Are you sure?" The blacksmith peered at him. "I'm sure I could do it." 

"I have no doubt you could," Rincewind told him. "But it won't like it." 

Despite the fact it had no face and no features to speak of, the Luggage conspired to look relieved. 

"Oh, all right," Jason Ogg shrugged. "But if you change your mind, remember I can shoe anything." 

INDEED HE CAN, said an unheard voice. Moments later, a bird dropped out of a tree.

The Luggage stepped back, away from the forge. It did not appear to appreciate the possibility. 

"Rincewind, what _are_ you doing?" asked a new voice, then went on without waiting for an answer. "Look, we got food from the castle." The wizard turned to face Angua, with Gytha and Gytha's mother in tow. She was holding two covered picnic baskets. "As well as that, our horses are being fed and watered as we speak. Oh, Librarian… Magrat sent more bananas." 

"Ook!" 

"You're welcome. Want a sandwich, Rincewind?" 

Rincewind accepted gratefully. "How're we going to feed a giant?" he asked between bites. 

Angua stopped short. "Oh," she said. "I hadn't thought of that." 

"We can't," said Gytha matter-of-factly. "We just send him home before he gets too hungry." 

"There _is_ that approach," Angua said doubtfully, but Gytha wasn't listening. 

"We should take some food out to Commander Vimes," she said, and led the way towards the outskirts of the village, where Dangre's bulk stood out against the horizon. 

* * * 

The party at the feet of the giant received the food gratefully, and they all tucked in (even those who'd eaten already: Rincewind shared the invaluable travellers' advice, _eat it before you have to run away from it_, to encourage them) with the occasional nervous glance skyward in case they were expected to share. 

On the moors above them, Ponder, Harry and Draco sat in a depressed huddle, vaguely watching Carrot ride round them. 

"Is it possible…" Ponder began, but then he stopped, thought, added, "No, it's not," and lapsed back into silence. 

Ten minutes later, Harry started, "I suppose…" but he too stopped, and reconsidered, and said, "… but I'm wrong." 

"Idiots," said Draco, though with more affection than venom; and then he added, "It's quite nice here, really." 

"Not for me," said Harry glumly. "My feet are getting cold." 

"No change from normal, then," Draco replied. "Shut up and let me think." 

Harry pulled a face, but he didn't speak.

* * *

[1] Although it has to be said that in Lancre, looking in any direction tended to reveal a forested slope.

[2] The rights of the people of Lancre have been fixed in stone—literally—for some eight generations. There is a small rock in a dark room in the Hubward Wing of Lancre Castle with the words "Folks can pick up what they like. King" carved on it. Local legend has it that the 'King' in question was under some pressure from a member of the Weatherwax family at the time this stone was installed.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven: Contemplation of the Situation 

_"They all got completely wiped out by ice ages and falling rocks and we_ _never did anything to stop it." - Rincewind_

When they didn't come down in an hour, Gytha asked the Librarian, "Do you suppose they're okay?" 

"Ook," the Librarian replied.

"Commander!" Gytha called to Vimes. "I think we may have a problem."

Vimes looked around, counting heads, and then nodded. "Angua! Would you ride up the moor with Miss Ogg and see if you can find Carrot and the others?"

"Yes, sir," Angua said. "Gytha?"

"I'm coming," Gytha replied, swinging up onto her horse and waving to the rest. "See you soon."

Angua rode up the slopes with a kind of fierce balance Gytha did not possess. She and her horse almost joined, as good riders will, and together they became a hunter, moving steadily, as they searched the landscape for the scents of the people they were after. 

For her part, Gytha concentrated—as she always had to—on staying on the horse, and occasionally looking around. Over to her left, she noticed an outcropping of rock hidden under gorse bushes. As a child, she'd played on these moors at times and she remembered it, but the bushes had grown since then.

Finally, they crested the rise and Angua gave a whoop, kicking her horse into a trot. "Carrot!"

Carrot spun his horse—he'd been patrolling the other side of the mountain—and headed for them, shouting to the three on the ground as he went. "Professor Stibbons! Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy!"

Ponder stood quickly, and Harry struggled to his feet. Draco, however, stayed on the grass, staring out towards Cori Celesti.

"We were worried about you!" Gytha said as they swung off their horses. "Look, did you find any granite?"

"No," Harry shook his head. "Somehow, we seem to have picked a bit of moor with no bare rock on it."

Gytha looked at him and laughed. "That's just because you don't know where to look," she said. "Halfway up, under the gorse bush—big lump of rock, granite if I recall it correctly."

Harry's eyes went wide. He decided that there were times when silence was the better part of intelligence, and merely sent a worried glance to where Draco sat, frowning at the landscape.

Gytha and Ponder looked at each other. "You, err, didn't spot the rock, huh?" Gytha ventured after a moment.

"No, we didn't," Ponder said honestly, aware that Gytha was laughing at him a little, but also aware that there was very little he could do to prevent it.

She nodded, and was about to say something.

"Gytha!" Draco shouted before she could open her mouth. He sprang up, and then stumbled. Harry rushed forward to support him. "Damn. Cramp. Gytha—you know about witch magic as well as wizard, right? I'm thinking—people in our world who try and work magic without a wand are mostly failures, but one or two succeed; if they use ancient places of power, like stone circles or menhirs."

"Like the Dancers, you mean?" Gytha said. "About two miles north of here, if you don't mind walking over the rougher moorland."

"Not at all," Draco said, though Harry privately suspected that it would be a difficult trek. "If we can use the Dancers as a gateway, we might be able to get away without any Floo powder."

"As I understand it, you'll only get into elves' country, though," Gytha said. "Not a place I'd want to go, personally."

"Elves aren't so bad, are they?" Carrot said.

"Oh, they're bad," Gytha replied. "My Nan met some, and they weren't good folks."

"I'm told that I'm about one-sixteenth elf," Draco said suddenly. "On my father's side, you understand." Actually, only Harry understood, but the meaningful glance he and Draco exchanged lead the rest of them to conclude that it was wiser not to ask.

"Is it really worth the effort?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know," Draco replied. "I'm just looking for other options given that we haven't found any granite, is all."

"Oh!" Gytha said. "Didn't you hear that? About halfway up the slope, covered in gorse, one outcrop of rock. You'd better go down and have a look at it."

Draco glared at her. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I did say," she protested, holding her hands out. "Anyway, are you going to look or not?"

He gave her another sharp glance, but retrieved his reins from Carrot and started down the slope.

Harry stared after him for a moment before Gytha offered to let him share her horse.

* * *

"Do you suppose they have zombies in their world?"

Vimes blinked. "I don't know."

"If they do, do you think they have legal protection? Citizenship? Right to vote?" persisted Reg Shoe.

"I really couldn't say, Reg."

"I bet they don't. I bet they're just like us, making them hide away in second-rate pubs."

"Yes, Constable."

"And they probably subjugate them the same way they subjugate their werewolves. Use them as unpaid labour, that sort of thing. It's blatant hypocrisy, that's what it is. Prejudice all over again. I didn't take my death lying down! I tell you, if more people would just _listen_…"

"I _am_ listening… oh, Carrot!"

"Reporting, sir." Carrot wondered for a moment why his commanding officer looked so relieved to see him, but put the matter out of his mind. "Miss Ogg has found an outcropping of granite not far from here. Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy are planning to inspect it."

"And as well as that, looks like we've got a back-up plan." Vimes turned to see Angua, riding up behind Carrot. "Have you ever heard of the Dancers, sir? They're a group of stones which can apparently be used as a gateway to other worlds."

"_Which_ other worlds?" asked Vimes shrewdly.

"Well… the elves' country," admitted Angua, "but it's something to bear in mind."

"Gateway to other worlds…" mused Vimes. "If that's the criteria, we may as well take our friend back to Ankh-Morpork."

"Sir?"

"The Street of Cunning Artificers," said Vimes. "There was a doorway there for a while. Went through to somewhere else. And where did Nobby find that man, Lupin?"

Angua's face remained expressionless at the mention of Lupin. "Lightning doesn't strike twice, sir. But the Dancers are something completely different."

"No," said another voice, and both Vimes and Angua jumped. It was more than a voice; it vibrated through the ground and made the grass rustle. Vimes turned to the miniature mountain behind him and remembered suddenly that it was a person.

"No," said Dangre again. "No Dancers. Them lords 'n' ladies… no."

Angua peered up, trying to approximate eye contact. "What if it's the only way?"

"Then 'm stayin' 'ere."

"Fair enough." Vimes shrugged. "Better get cracking with the granite, then."

"I think Draco's doing his best, sir," Carrot told him.

Vimes looked up the hill, and cocked his head. On the breeze the sound of words that would shock less hardened ears reached the company.

Carrot added, "And Ponder says that the swearing really is a part of the magic."

They sat and enjoyed the sunshine some more, since there didn't seem to be anything else to do.

* * *

There was quite a lot of sunshine to enjoy, but even slow-moving Discworld days have to approach sunset eventually. As the first stars twinkled in the sky, Harry wandered down from the chattering knot around the now-exposed rock, which was surrounded by fires for various purposes, and enquired of Vimes if there was anything to eat.

"I told you he was a proper wizard," Rincewind said to Vimes, who had expressed doubt on the point.

Harry repeated his question, somewhat impatiently.

"We ate it all, sorry," Angua said, slightly shame-faced.

"Huh," Harry said. "Just my luck." He sat down on the grass, and looked hungry.

After a few minutes, as the final rays of sunshine slanted through the Disc's upper atmosphere, Gytha followed him down the hill. "They're going to be talking all night," she said with a nod in Draco and Ponder's direction. "Harry, would you tell them that we're going up to the castle for something to eat? You've got more authority than I have."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Harry muttered, but he got up. For a moment, he weighed up the difficulty of climbing the hill again versus the potential throat damage of a good yell, and then took a deep breath and hollered, "Draco Malfoy! If you want to stay skinny, stay there!"

In the twilight, Draco's white head turned at once. He said something to the slightly less visible Ponder, who lifted a lump of rock and started to descend in short order, close behind Draco.

Grinning, Gytha said, "Good work, Harry. Commander Vimes—are you leaving a giant-guarding detail here?"

* * *

"This is nice," Hermione said, laying her hefty tome down on the sideboard and looking at the table. "Candles, flowers—it's been years since you set a table as nicely as this, Huxley."

"Well, Mrs Pince," her husband replied, kissing her softly, "I thought a wedding anniversary—even if it's only sapphire—was a good time to return to some of our little courting rituals. His eyes sparkled.

Hermione smiled at him. "I'm sure you're right," she said, accepting the chair he pulled out for her. "I know I needed yanking out of that book."

"The women in my life have always needed that," Huxley said with a sly grin. "My mother the librarian—my sister the editor—my wife the reader and writer…"

He waited long enough to see her smile and answer before turning away to fetch the food from the kitchen—but as he did so, a roar from the fireplace heralded a rush of mixed blue and red flames. They both stared as the flickers gradually resolved into a rather distorted head.

It was, on the whole, round rather than long, though the chin was jumping from left to right most uncomfortably. It was wearing spectacles of the type that have a shape modelled on jam-jar bases, and it was topped by a mop of unruly hair—blue hair.

"Mrs Hermione Pince?" said the apparition, hopefully.

"Hello," Hermione said. "Harry, is that you? Where are you?"

"Actually, my name's Ponder," the head replied, and then disappeared.

"I'll talk to her," an authoritative voice said, and though the next face to appear in the fire was almost exactly the same as the last one, Hermione knew the voice—the war leader, the school friend, and the slightly quirky man who relied on her for help.

"Hermione?" Harry said. "Listen. I can't see you, because this isn't proper Floo powder, just something Gytha and Draco dreamt up—bits from your book, or one of them, and bits from a book by someone called Goodie Whemper, and some experimentation. Anyway. We're at a place called Lancre Castle, which should now be on the Floo network. Call me back, please?"

He faded, and the flames returned to a more average amber glow.

Hermione looked over at Huxley with a sad smile. "Sorry, love," she said. "Friend in need, you understand."

Huxley nodded, and then shrugged. "I can cook again another day," he said philosophically. "Do what you have to."

"Thank you," Hermione said quietly, then lifted the Floo powder pot from the mantelpiece and knelt in front of the fire.


	9. Chapter Seven A

Chapter Eight: Bookworms Unite 

_"You know, mixing up stuff to see what happens." - Ponder Stibbons._

"It's no good, Harry," Hermione said, when ten minutes of hurried explanations had resulted in little clarity and no ideas. "I can't kneel here forever, I'm coming through."

Harry tried to protest, but Hermione was confident enough to simply ignore him, and within seconds she was standing in one of Lancre Castle's many spare sitting rooms—this one given over to the use of visiting wizards for the time being. From the mat in front of the fire, she surveyed the assembled company.

Directly in front of her stood Harry, blinking tiredly behind his glasses. On one side him stood Draco—never her favourite person—and on the other side stood a slightly younger man, whom she recognised as the first face from the fire. He looked a lot like Harry, and a little like someone else she knew but couldn't name.

By his side stood a young woman who was holding a copy of one of her earlier books from the days when she still published under her maiden name and found it amusing to give them titles that slyly referenced Muggle fantasy stories. 

In the far corner, a man wearing tatty robes and a pointed hat with the word WIZZARD on it leaned against a sideboard; and on the sideboard sat an orang-utan eating an apple.

In the centre of the room there was a table, and by the table stood an older lady with a distinct air of confusion.

"Hermione Granger?" the young women with the book said. "I've been reading this, and…"

"It's Hermione Pince now, but that doesn't matter," Hermione smiled at her. "You are?"

"Gytha Ogg," the young women replied, and sketched a curtsy. "The trouble is, we have to get this giant back to your world, and I'm worried that the movement of the space-time continuum may mean that…"

"… we don't have that much time," Hermione finished, and was rewarded with a wide grin from Gytha. "Yes. Now, if…" She moved to the table, where Gytha had stacked all the books she had consulted and the notes she'd made on the way.

"I told you she'd take over," Draco said bitterly to Harry.

"Hey, calm down," Harry said, and wrapped his arms around Draco's waist. "If she can get Dangre home, we can go home too. I don't know about you, but I'd like to get some sleep."

Overhearing them, Magrat drifted away from the table, and said, "If you like, we've got plenty of spare bedrooms."

"Please," Harry said gratefully, though it earned him a dirty look from Draco.

"I'll stay here," Draco said.

"No you won't," Harry told him, and turned back to Magrat. "If you'd…"

Magrat gave them a confused glance, but said, "Down the corridor, first on the left and then second on the right."

"Thank you," Harry said, taking a firmer grip on Draco. "If anything exciting happens, call us." He pulled Draco from the room.

* * *

Harry awoke and waited for the confusion to abate. It took a few moments for him to remember exactly where in the space-time continuum he was _this_ morning, but once this was accomplished, he rolled over and tried to prod Draco. 

Draco wasn't there. Harry blinked. Then he swung his legs out of bed and ambled towards the door. Sleepily, he retraced his steps from the night before, and soon enough, found himself in the sitting-room given over to the wizards. The night before, it had been a large, irregular room, with stone flagstones making up the floor and all manner of eclectic furniture arranged around the edges. The wizards, being wizards, had commandeered most of the chairs, while the Watch, being the Watch, had congregated in the corners of the room, out of the wind, having a quiet smoke.

Now, it was quiet and empty, except for a woman methodically tidying. Harry was surprised to see it was the queen. "Hello," he said awkwardly.

She looked up. "Good morning, Mr Potter. You'll find your friends outside."

"Draco, too?" Harry asked, wondering if he should stay and help. It didn't seem quite right, to his way of thinking, the monarch doing her own cleaning.

"Yes, him too," replied Magrat, over her shoulder. She was busy dusting. "Stop by the kitchens on your way down, get some breakfast."

Harry thanked her and left the room. As he shut the door, he distinctly heard her sneeze.

In the end he didn't get breakfast. He was rather afraid he would get lost trying to find the kitchens, so eventually he made his way outside. The other wizards and the Watch weren't too difficult to find; the sounds of laughter and incantations and great deal of swearing carried over the air. Harry followed, and at length came to an open square of short green grass. He dimly remembered crossing it on his way to the castle the night before, but there hadn't been so much activity then. Neither had there been a thick chalk octagon on the ground, or half a dozen glowing metal buckets, each bucket being sporadically attended to. As Harry came near, Hermione tossed a handful of something into the nearest one. A cloud of smoke drifted out of it and she smiled grimly.

"Something's burning," said Harry wryly, and she looked up.

"Morning, Harry," she said through the smoke. "Slept well, did you?"

"Um… yes," said Harry, uncomfortably aware that Hermione's eyebrows were getting singed. "What are you doing? Where's Draco?"

"He's over there," she said, and pointed over to where the giant was sitting, some distance away. "He and Gytha are trying to explain the plan to Dangre. I'm just taking care of the finishing touches."

"What finishing touches might those be?"  
  
"Well…" She paused, stepping backwards. "We're trying to replicate Floo powder. A lot of it. I'm going to put it in the buckets, place each one on a point of the octagon, and hopefully, with enough power, whatever's inside the octagon will be sent wherever we want to send it."

"Why an octagon?" Harry asked.

"It's thaumaturgically significant," said Ponder, appearing suddenly. "The number that follows seven is very important in all disciplines of magic."

"The number… what, you mean eigh-_mmf_."

"Sorry," Ponder apologised, and withdrew his hand from Harry's mouth. "You're a wizard, you don't want to say that."

Harry felt a sudden sense of deja-vu and said nothing in reply.

"Dangre!" yelled an impatient female voice. Slowly, the giant lumbered over to them, Gytha dancing around his feet. "Are we ready?" she asked breathlessly.

"What, so soon?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Hermione laughed. "Serves you right for not getting up earlier, Harry. We've been getting things ready since dawn. Now, Dangre… would you care to step inside the octagon?"

The octagon had clearly been designed to accommodate a giant's feet, but he scuffed the chalk when stepping over it, so Ponder, with a resigned sigh, began re-drawing the affected sides. As he did so, Gytha went round checking the buckets.

"What's actually in them?" Harry asked Hermione as they watched.

"What, the buckets? Let's see…" Hermione counted off on her fingers. "Dragon balm, thyme, rosewater, sulphur, lithium salts, Flobberworm droppings, sugar, lime…"

"Hang on." Harry held up one hand. "Dragon balm? They have dragons here?"

"Not our sort," Hermione said. "They don't have Flobberworms, either. We substituted Gytha's mum's muscle-soothing mixture for the dragon balm, and manure from her uncle's stable floor instead of Flobberworm droppings."

"And the lithium salts? Draco mentioned them once before, but we couldn't find them."

"Lithium silicate, in the granite. Turns out they call it something different here – 'saxeum', if I remember rightly. Anyway, it's all been taken care of."

"Clever," said Harry approvingly. "I knew we brought you here for a reason."

She blushed slightly, but shook her head. "It wasn't me, it was all Gytha's doing."

"She's very efficient."

"Yes… can be rather bossy at times, though." Hermione paused. "Ah, well, it's for a good cause."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, watching as Gytha finished inspecting the seventh bucket. Hermione wasn't interested in her for the moment. Her eyes were resting on someone else. "Harry," she said.

"Yeah?

"The one in the wizard's hat, with the chalk. Who is he?"

"His name's Ponder Stibbons," Harry replied, not looking at her. "He's part of the university faculty at Ankh-Morpork."

"I know who he is, Harry. Now tell me – who is he _really_?"

Harry sighed and turned to face her. "I'm not a hundred percent sure," he said honestly, "but I think he's my son."

Hermione turned to look at Ponder again, noting the distinctive features of the younger wizard. "I thought so," she said gently. "Who was his mother?"

"Hermione! We're ready!" yelled Gytha at that point. As Hermione moved quickly towards her, she saw Ponder suddenly straighten up, pushing his hair out of his eyes in a very familiar way.

"I'm ready, too," he said seriously. "Let's do this."

Gytha ran to fetch Draco, who had been deep in conversation with Sam Vimes, and positioned him at one point of the octagon. Next to him, on the next point, stood Hermione. Doubtfully, Harry took up his position on another point, and Gytha and Ponder followed suit on two of the remaining points.

Following which, they all stared at each other. "Ah," said Gytha faintly, and counted. Five people. Eight points on the octagon.

"Ah," said Harry. Behind him, the Watch were running towards them.

"What's up?" called Carrot.

"We're three people short," Draco told him.

"There's three of us," Angua said, pointing at herself, Vimes and Carrot.

"Are you wizards?" asked Hermione, and then grinned as Vimes' and Carrot's expressions told her everything she needed to know.

"Rincewind is," Ponder said, and strode off to grab the other wizard by the collar before he started sprinting. Once deposited on a point of the octagon, Rincewind didn't move. There were some things you didn't fight.

"Two more," Gytha said, and then: "Do they have to be actual _wizards_?"

"What did you have in mind?" asked Hermione.

"Magrat and my mam," she said. "They're _witches_."

Five minutes later, Tracie Ogg and the Queen of Lancre had been carefully positioned on the remaining points. All eight of them were standing behind a bucket of smoking, aromatic natural Floo powder. Rincewind and Ponder were pointing their staffs at the centre of the octagon, where Dangre was standing. Harry, Hermione and Draco were pointing their wands, and Magrat and Tracie their broomsticks. Gytha, lacking any of these attributes, was merely holding her hands out in front of her and hoping for the best.

"Now what? What do we say?" asked Magrat.

"Nothing in particular," Hermione told her, "just any word you feel will concentrate your power."

A sudden silence fell. Dangre, for all his bulk, seemed capable of standing perfectly still, and all around him, wizards and witches had closed their eyes. Some distance away, hiding behind a rock, the watchmen were holding their breath. The grass had stopped rustling, and there were no birds singing.

And then, suddenly, with shouts of "Avaunt!" and "Help!" and "Mudblood!" and "Logic!" and "Potatoes!" and sundry others, things began to happen. The thick, aromatic smoke became overpowering, clouding vision, and with howling winds and a sudden drop in temperature, the spell caught.

* * *

Five minutes later, the air was warm enough and the smoke had cleared sufficiently for Vimes to dare ordering his people out from behind the rock. They stumbled out, rubbing their eyes.

"Ook," said a small voice.

"Oh, hello," Angua told the orang-utan as she stepped over the grass, and then she paused. "Wait… you're a wizard, technically. Why didn't you volunteer?"

The Librarian extended a shaking digit over to where the smoke was still thickest. "Ook," he said mournfully. Through the smoke, only two figures were dimly visible – Tracie Ogg and Magrat. Of Dangre and the wizards, there was no sign, except perhaps the fact that the octagon now had snow in the middle of it.

"Oh," said Angua after a while. "_That_ was why."

* * *

Rincewind screamed.

Several people yelled, "Where am I?"

It was pitch dark, and it was very cold, and it was a few moments before anyone spoke again. Finally, Harry dislodged his foot from Draco's elbow and his hands from Hermione's hair, and checked to see if he was still alive. A brief check that all his arms and legs were still attached went some way to proving this, so he went to the next step and tried speaking. "Draco?"

"Waaah," said Draco, and kicked him.

Harry was reassured, and moved on. "Ponder?"

"Over here," came a whisper of Ponder's voice. "I think I'm upside down." There came the sound of scuffling, then something hitting the snow with a thump, and then someone saying, "Ow!" 

Harry paused, decided Ponder seemed to be taking care of things, and continued: "Hermione?"

"Just here, Harry." She prodded him. Harry grinned in the dark, and was about to ask after Rincewind and Gytha and everyone else, when he realised with a jolt that he'd asked after Ponder before he'd thought of Hermione. He filed away the thought for future contemplation, and said, "Gytha?"

"Here. And I'm sitting on Rincewind."

"Aargh," agreed Rincewind.

"Magrat? Mrs Ogg?" Harry finished.

Silence. "Mam!" Gytha yelled, and the sound reverberated and echoed all round, but there was no reply.

"They're not here," said Harry gently. "Wherever here is."


	10. Chapter Nine

Part Two  Chapter Nine: What A Wonderful World 

_"Is it not written: 'What you don't know, can't hurt you'?" –Lu-Tze_

"Which raises another good question," said Hermione. "Where *are* we?" 

"There's snow," Ponder volunteered. "I'm cold. And wet." 

"And it's dark," Harry said. Draco was struck forcibly by how alike their voices were. 

"Well, you can do something about that," Draco said. "We are wizards, after all." He sat up and whispered_, _"_Lumos_," and the tip of his wand cast a warm yellow glow over the area. "I can't see everyone—come a bit closer to the light, all of you." 

Harry and Hermione were already close, but they got up, blinking a little, and Harry helped Draco to his feet, before copying his spell. From somewhere off to the left, Ponder crawled into the circle, and a couple of seconds later Gytha and Rincewind joined them. 

Their eyes adjusted to the light. They could see each other—mussed, with wide frightened eyes—but nothing around them. 

"There are trees," Ponder said after a moment. "That's what I was hanging in—my robe got caught on a branch." He displayed the long rip he'd made when he struggled to get away. 

"And Dangre's gone," Hermione said. "We wouldn't have heard him—giants move quite silently in snow and have good night vision, so he's probably with his family already. Though I half-expect to hear a greeting call or two soon." 

Harry nodded. "So, we're in the Himalayas somewhere," he said. "What's the plan now?" 

In the distance, a pair of huge lungs bellowed out a giant's greeting. Hermione smiled, and said, "I was right. He's home okay." 

"But we're not, which is a more immediate concern," Draco said. "Do we have a plan?" 

"Run away!" Rincewind suggested urgently, but Ponder caught hold of his elbow. 

"Unlikely to work," he said. "Magic's probably our only chance." 

Suddenly, Gytha spoke up. "With only seven of us? Difficult." 

"In your world, perhaps," Hermione said. "But as far as I know, this is our world, and our magical rules apply." 

"Do you have an actual plan, Mrs Pince, or merely pompous statements to make?" Draco asked cuttingly, with a sly grin for Gytha. 

"I'll have you know, Mr Malfoy, that I'm perfectly capable of formulating a plan at short notice," Hermione told him. "And, unlike yourself, I'm also capable of working with the locals to find substitute materials for supplies I lack, as our presence here demonstrates." 

Harry, having been listening to versions of this argument since he was eleven, sighed. "This isn't the time," he said. "As I see them, we've got magical travel options—Apparition, Floo Powder, and portkeys—or non-magical—walking, running, or finding something to ride." 

"Or broomsticks," Draco put in. 

"Or broomsticks," Harry agreed. "The trouble is, we…" 

"Broomsticks are for *witches*," Ponder broke, aghast. "Wizards don't use them." 

"The types of magic aren't as separate here," Gytha said. 

"As I was saying," Harry went on, voice rising slightly, "we don't actually have broomsticks, Portkeys, or Floo powder to use, and Apparition won't work for all of us. I think walking's our best choice." 

"Through the mountains, at night," Hermione said. "I'm not keen on this." 

"Neither am I," Harry told her, "but I don't see another choice. If anyone's got suggestions, I'm listening; if not, I'm going to start walking." 

He held his wand like a torch, picked a direction, and set off. 

"Harry!" Hermione shouted. "Not that way!" 

He didn't turn back. "Stupid pig-headed Gryffindor," Draco muttered, and went after him. 

"How do you know which way to go?" Gytha asked, curious. 

"Stars," Hermione said, dimming her wand-light and pointing upwards. "I noticed when we arrived—if you know the patterns, it's easy enough to pick out north. We should head north or south, if we can; that should bring us out of the mountains fastest." 

Looking up at the unfamiliar constellations, Gytha realised how far she was from home, and shivered. She reminded Hermione of her own daughter, Alicia, now Minister for Magic, when she'd just left Hogwarts—facing a big world about which she knew lots from books and little from experience. 

Hermione slipped an arm around Gytha's shoulders. "Don't worry," she said. "Harry may have his stupid moments, but he's a big hero in our world and he has a tendency to get out of even the worst scrapes." 

Two steps behind them, Ponder listened, entranced. Harry—his father—was seen as a hero? He'd mentioned doing great things in several wars, but he'd cast it as "what one did when one had to" rather than as "heroic deeds which made one a trusted leader". It was mostly, Ponder supposed, a matter of point of view, but it was intriguing all the same. 

Soon enough, Harry and Draco returned—though Ponder did note that Draco was keeping a firm grip on Harry's hand, firm enough to turn his knuckles white. 

"Which way, Hermione?" Draco asked, his voice carefully bland. 

"South, I suggest," she said, pointing. "We'll have to detour a bit at times, but that looks easiest from here and it has to bring us out in India or Pakistan eventually." 

"Right," Draco said, and led them off, still dragging Harry behind him. 

* * * 

"I hate walking," Draco moaned, for the sixth time in an hour. They'd found a yak path, which was dirty and stony but seemed safe when compared with the snows and undergrowth. 

"So do I," Rincewind agreed, and then added, "Running's more my style." 

"Do you remember," Hermione asked Harry, "when—back in the war—we had to do route marches so that the Death Eaters wouldn't detect our magical traces?" 

"Yes, I remember," Harry said. "We alternated between complaining, inventing marching rhymes with swearwords in, and telling each other stories." 

Hermione grinned at him in the glowing light of their wands, and Harry's heart leapt nostalgically. "Don't you think it's time for a change?" 

He grinned back. "Do you have a story in mind, or is the field open to take volunteers?" 

"Nothing specific," Hermione said. "Anyone can start." 

There was a silence, complete save for their footfalls in the snow. 

"*I* don't mind starting," Draco said. "This is only a short story, but it's a true one." 

"Go on," Harry said. 

"Once upon a time," Draco began, and Harry thought he could still hear the whiny tone carefully hidden in his voice, but then dismissed that as merely Draco's accent, "there was a very old man, who was bored with doing the same things day in and day out. So, when he received an invitation to visit some in-laws in a foreign city, he naturally accepted at once. 

"However, once there, his significant other—who didn't have two brain cells to rub together—became embroiled with local problems, and forced him to engage in an unpredictable magical experiment, which—of course—landed him in dire straits. Where his feet are slowly freezing off and he's going to die of cold and hunger." 

"You're not going to do anything of the sort," Harry said. He tried to keep his voice calm, but anger bubbled beneath it. 

"Why not?" Draco asked, almost insolently. Ponder had the distinct impression that he wanted to provoke an argument because at least that would be interesting. 

"I won't let you!" 

Harry's voice had risen to a shout, and Draco stopped, turning to face him fully. As he did so, a stone or branch on the path moved under his weight and he tripped. He caught his balance quickly enough, but his ankle had twisted awkwardly and when he tried to touch his foot to the ground he yelped in pain. 

The whole group stopped. Harry moved closer, and offered Draco his support. Draco leant on him gratefully, but said, "I am now. I can't walk." 

"You can still Apparate," Hermione said firmly, and then added as she caught sight of Gytha's frightened face, "That's probably a good plan, actually. If you Apparate ahead, you'll be able to give us some idea of what sort of terrain's coming up." 

"Not until dawn," Draco said. "And even then, I only have so much power." 

"By dawn, you might be able to put your weight on it, especially if we bind it up a bit," Harry said, practically. "It's nearly time for a rest anyway." 

Hermione nodded, and Ponder—who'd been yawning for some time—looked much happier. 

"What are we supposed to shelter under? A pile of snow?" Draco asked sardonically. Harry heard the tremor of fear in his voice and held him tighter. 

"The rock face we passed only a few minutes ago had some likely looking caves in," Gytha suggested. 

"They did?" Hermione asked. 

Gytha nodded. "It didn't seem important at the time—we were pressing on—but I did notice them." 

"Let's go back there, then," Hermione said decisively. "Draco, can you limp along that far if you lean on Harry?" 

"Yes," Harry replied, but he did it in a whisper so soft that only Draco heard. 

Draco tried a couple of steps using Harry as a crutch, and then nodded. "I can try." 

"When you're running, you never get into arguments," Rincewind muttered as he trailed along behind them. 

* * * 

They huddled carefully into a damp cave. There were drier ones, but they smelt worryingly of animals. This one went quite a long way back, although after about five feet it was too low for anyone to get into, and it had a series of low shelves across the floor which people could sit on. 

For warmth and comfort, they sat close together. Harry and Draco practically wrapped around each other. Hermione sat on Harry's other side, and Ponder just below them. Gytha sat as close as possible to Hermione, and Rincewind—seeing the wisdom of the plan—sat slightly higher than Ponder, close to both him and Draco. It was, in the glow of Hermione's wand, to which she had also added a warming spell (Draco and Harry were saving their energy), almost cosy. 

"Has anyone got requests for stories?" Hermione asked, when they were settled and silent. "That's easier than trying to think of one straight off." 

They thought for a moment, and then Ponder tipped his head back to look at Harry. "I'd like to hear more about my mot… about my fath… about Neville." 

Harry felt Hermione stiffen—she, too, had been a good friend of Neville's. 

"I expect I can tell you some things," Harry said, trying to sound relaxed and reassuring. "For starters, Hermione knew him too." 

"Before he…" 

"Before You-Know-Who killed him," Hermione said, matter-of-factly. 

"Well, maybe Voldemort killed him, and maybe he died of something else," Harry said. "It's a little more complicated than we'd previously thought, Hermione." 

"Oh?" Her voice invited confidence. 

Harry swallowed hard. "Yes. Err. Ponder here—I told you he was my son, didn't I? Well, it seems like—you probably guessed that Neville and I—" 

"It was fairly obvious," Hermione said. "Especially with—" she spared Draco a sharp glance, "—hindsight." 

"Right," Harry nodded. "Anyway—Neville and I were together, right up to the final fight with Voldemort. We—there's a tradition—" 

"Had hot wild sex the night before the battle," Draco put in, slightly gleefully. "I'm glad to know you learnt something at school." 

"Quite so," Harry said, blushing. "We slept together, and then the next day there was the battle, and Neville disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead. But—Hermione, Draco, you remember Neville. Look at me—look at him—think about Neville…" 

Hermione brightened the tip of her wand a little and studied them both. "I… you're saying—he's Neville's son, too? That's impossible—unless you're trying to tell me that Neville was, I don't know, transgendered." 

Harry shook his head. "No. I… Neville was a man, okay? That's sort of…" 

"The way you swing," Hermione said, in the tone of one who had heard the phrase many times as the famous Harry Potter tried to explain to the world that he was even more different than they had previously thought. 

"Yes," Harry agreed. 

"But that's impossible," Hermione repeated. "Two men do not produce a baby. Fact of life." 

Harry shrugged. "I know. But Ponder here was found in Ankh-Morpork, roughly the time Neville disappeared, perhaps a few months later, he had a father called Neville, and you have to admit—he looks a lot like me."

"He does," Hermione agreed after studying him some more. "And strange things do happen to you—and they had a tendency to happen to Neville, too." 

"You're not kidding," Harry muttered, remembering some of those strange things. He looked around as his companions—Gytha, currently frowning deeply as she tried to understand what she'd just heard; Rincewind, fast asleep with his head on a rock; Hermione, studying him carefully and still sending little glances down at Ponder's messy hair; Draco, leaning on his shoulder and yawning tiredly; and Ponder, also falling asleep. Ponder, his… son. 

That still seemed like it would take some more getting used to. 

Harry smiled at Hermione, leaned his cheek on Draco's soft hair, and drifted into a doze.


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: Roundworld Geography 

_"..." - The Luggage._

Several hours later, the atmosphere in the cave changed subtly. Draco stopped looking quite so angelic, sleep-eased features beginning to show signs of consciousness. Rincewind stopped scrabbling at the rock floor. Whatever things from the Dungeon Dimensions that were currently chasing him through dreams began to retreat, back to the spaces between. Gytha murmured in her sleep, something about 'imp-mail' and 'pass the butter', and shielded her eyes from the light slowly creeping across the floor across the cave. 

Despite all this, Hermione was the first to wake properly. She opened her eyes, stretched, and then methodically decided that she was not, metaphorically speaking, in Kansas any more, nor was she likely to get the bathroom to herself this morning. Therefore, she was about to venture outside and find the designated bush/snowdrift, but a movement by the entrance gave her pause. Ponder had just flung his arms out above his head. Hermione stood for a second, taking the opportunity to look, really _look_, at the likeness. It was even more pronounced when the parties concerned were deeply asleep. 

Hermione smiled. Then she took a few delicate steps outwards and disappeared from view. 

Harry was next to wake. Beside him, Draco twitched and shifted, and at his feet, Gytha sat up and yawned hugely. By the time Hermione returned, they were all scrambling to their feet, rubbing their eyes. All, except Draco. He was sitting with his injured ankle straight out in front of him, waiting for someone to say it. 

Harry said it. "Will you be able to walk?" 

"No," said Draco decisively. "Absolutely not." 

"Then you'll have to Apparate," said Hermione, just as decisively. "Harry, you go with him." 

"Where to?" asked Harry. 

Hermione sighed. "Anywhere! Further down the path. Then one of you come back, tell us what it's like, and we'll catch up." 

Draco moaned, but the general consensus was in favour. Harry hauled him to his feet, handed him his wand, and with a faint _pop_, they were gone. 

Within a minute or two, Harry was back. "Draco's waiting for us further up," he explained. "I've seen the terrain, it's not too bad. I'll walk with you." 

"Thanks," said Hermione, and they set off. It was a beautiful, clear morning, and the sky was pale blue, stained with pink and red. The air was fresh, the snow was powdery underfoot, and the night mist was lifting off the mountains. As Harry settled into the comfortable, well-paced gait of the experienced hiker, he began to almost, for lack of a better word, enjoy himself. Things could be worse. At least they had all been dressed for Lancre weather, which wasn't as bad as the Himalayan variety, but almost. And from the outward evidence, he wasn't the only one whose spirits were looking up. Ponder's eyes were bright with gentle enthusiasm, and Gytha was humming a tune under her breath. Even Rincewind looked capable of holding a walking pace for more than a few minutes at a time. 

"So," said Harry after a while, "we never got round to telling any stories last night." 

"We fell asleep," said Ponder ruefully. "I wanted to hear about Neville." 

"I knew him too," said Hermione gently. "He was a remarkable person, Ponder. Not as magically gifted as Harry, perhaps, but he was an expert in his own way. Knew everything there was to be known about the magical properties of plants. He always seemed to want to fade away into the background, though… perhaps he felt overshadowed by Harry." 

Harry looked uncomfortable and Ponder asked, "_Was_ he?" 

Hermione shook her head emphatically. "No. He may have felt that way, but it wasn't the case at all. _No_." 

But Harry was still looking twitchy, so she attempted to change the subject. "But you've heard so much about us, and we don't know anything about _you_," she said seriously. "Tell us a story." 

Ponder looked flustered for a moment, then smiled. "I'll tell you one thing," he said. "I was the only person in the University's history ever to get full marks in their final exams." 

Instantly, Rincewind and Gytha started sniggering. Harry glanced in their direction, looking confused, and Ponder laughed. "It was just after Ridcully had become Archchancellor." 

"How that happened, I'll never know," muttered Rincewind. 

"He was the best candidate for the job," Ponder said. "Ridcully the Brown, they called him in those days. He became a seventh level mage at the age of twenty-seven, then disappeared for years. Well, he came back just before I turned eighteen. He set that year's final exam papers. Now, for some reason, mine was different from all the others. I did it and got a hundred percent." 

Gytha was sniggering even harder. "What's so funny?" Hermione asked. 

"The exam paper," Ponder told her. "It had only one question, and that was: 'What is your name?'" 

Harry burst out laughing. "You what?" 

"Wait, I haven't got to the interesting bit yet," Ponder continued. "After that, I tried to go out for a drink." 

"A laudable aim," said Hermione, and laughed. A spray of snow fell from a branch at the sound, and they all smiled. 

"Quite so. I went round the scholars' entrance – you've seen it," he added to Harry. "However, on the way there, a fifty-foot-tall creature from the Dungeon Dimensions landed on my head." 

Hermione choked. "Oh, I _know_ I shouldn't be laughing…" 

"Sadly, that is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me," admitted Ponder, grinning. 

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Does that mean wizards are celibate in this world?" 

Gytha, Rincewind and Ponder looked uncomfortable. "Technically," said Ponder at last. 

At that point, the path curved around to the left, revealing a wizard sitting on a tree stump. 

"What are you lot laughing at?" Draco asked, somewhat aggrievedly. 

"Nothing, nothing," Harry assured him. "Same again, Hermione?" 

Hermione nodded, and Draco and Harry disappeared. She and the others were left staring out across the mountainside down the path, hoping to see them reappear in the distance, but to no avail. When Harry returned, he said, "We landed round another bend in the path. Come on, let's be off again." 

A few crunchy footsteps later, Gytha had a question. "Hermione? Are wizards celibate in your world?" 

"No…" said Hermione slowly. 

"Then tell us a story." Gytha grinned, and despite her advanced years, Hermione felt compelled to grab a handful of snow and throw it accurately in the girl's direction. That done, she grinned herself and thought about it. "Well," she said finally, her expression clearly designed to communicate to Gytha the words _you asked for it_, "when I was in my sixth year at Hogwarts, I had a sort-of boyfriend." 

"She bullied him into it," put in Harry, and ducked the flying snow. 

"As I was saying," Hermione continued, "I had a boyfriend. His name was Ron. He was in our year, he was Harry's best friend, and we went out for years. Years 'n' years. Anyway, one night, when we were about eighteen, we sneaked off to the library. It was dark, and it was quiet, and there was no one about, so we found a secluded spot near the back, and we…" She paused. 

"And you what?" asked Gytha. 

"We studied for our History of Magic test," said Hermione primly. "Why, what did you think we did?" 

Amidst the general amusement, Ponder put in, "The Librarian would get very angry if anyone tried that in our Library." 

"He's the only one who's allowed in the sub-basements," said Rincewind unexpectedly. "They have to keep _The Joy Of Tantric Sex_ under ice water." 

"You're all still laughing!" complained Draco some time later. 

"Some things are the same everywhere," was Harry's only reply. 

Some time later, on about their fifth Apparition-hop, a sudden noise made Harry pause. The general background noise of the mountain – the noises of small animals, the calls of the birds of prey as they wheeled along the air currents, the occasional crack of a branch as the weight of the snow became too much for it – had settled comfortably at the back of his awareness. But _this_ noise, this scrabbling, pattering, somehow malevolent noise, wasn't quite right. It made him edgy. 

"Hermione," he began, but he was too late. Something came flying through the air in front of them, something big and cuboid, something with an unmistakable bulk to it, something with… 

…hundred of little legs? 

Harry launched himself backwards, attempting to take Hermione with him. In the midst of the instinct, he was startled to see Rincewind and Ponder moving _towards_ the thing. By the time the panic and adrenaline had receded, Rincewind was standing with his hands on his hips. "_Where_ have you been?" 

Despite the fact it had no face, the Luggage managed to look contrite. 

Rincewind wagged a finger. "And with all my clean underwear, too!" 

"What…" Hermione began, shakily, but Ponder was ahead of her. 

"It's Rincewind's Luggage," he said, somewhat unnecessarily. "It's made of sapient pearwood. Designed to follow its owner anywhere." 

"But we're in a different world!" 

"That doesn't matter. It just takes a little longer." 

At their next stop, Draco was persuaded to sit on the Luggage and be carried along. He complained for a while, but was at length moved to admit the fact he was quite comfortable. "It's a bit bumpy, though." 

Rincewind raised his eyebrows. So did Harry. The Luggage plodded resolutely on, occasionally slipping in the snow, but never letting Draco unbalance[1]. Rincewind gave it a careful kick, and it carried Draco to the head of the little procession. Draco showed no objection to this. 

Behind them, Gytha watched carefully for any changes in the terrain. Although the sun was still shining brightly, it was growing colder, and they might do well to stop soon. She wondered vaguely if they could find caves again, or more likely, would have to spend a night in the open. It seemed somewhat incongruous to her – two nights before, she'd slept in her little bed in the University, never thinking that forty-eight hours hence, she would be adrift in another world. Admittedly, she never spent very much time in her bed anyway – that last night, she had woken at some unearthly hour and gone off in search of Hex – but it was the principle of the thing. 

Lost in thought she might have been, but it was still Gytha who saw the village first. 

It was nestled some way further down the mountainside, where the snow was less thick on the ground. Harry peered through the beginnings of the evening mist. "Those aren't houses," he said after a moment. "They're tents." 

"Yurts," said Draco knowledgably. 

Hermione took a look. "Possibly," she said. "If we were in Outer Mongolia." 

"Are we?" asked Rincewind, who hadn't quite got the hang of Roundworld geography. 

"No," Hermione told him. "Villages made out of tents don't hang around for long, in any case." 

"Should we take a look?" That was Harry, still peering over the edge. 

"I don't see why not," put in Gytha. "It's a matter of going down rather than across." 

"You!" Rincewind told the Luggage. "Can you climb downwards?" 

The Luggage did its best to oblige, carefully stepping down the incline rather than across the path. It was somewhat more difficult, and small showers of scree went cascading down through the snow, but after a moment, it got back into its many-stepped rhythm. Once it had gone a short way, it turned and waited patiently. Draco was less patient. "Come on," he said. "It's not difficult." 

They followed. 

  


* * *

[1] Rincewind had hoped it would mellow with the passage of the years, and while it hadn't become less outwardly malevolent, nor outgrown its tendency towards homicidal rage, it had nevertheless become slightly more tractable.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven 

_"Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground." -Dumbledore_

The mixed bunch of weary adventurers was spotted long before they reached the bottom. There were shouts, and people gathered, staring at the strangers unashamedly. 

Getting down had proved to be a hit and miss affair: one missed one's footing, was hit by something falling from above, and mis-stepped once again. Only Draco, sitting on moderately well-balanced Luggage, reached the grassy lower slope without falling over at all. 

At the bottom, they assembled in a little group, which was quickly surrounded by villagers—dark-faced, weather-beaten men and women who looked more curious than frightened. 

"Translation charm, I used to know, err…" Hermione muttered. She tried a few spell-words; the third one transformed the random babble around them into a random babble in which they could understand the occasional word. 

"Hello?" Harry tried, making a vague hands-out gesture. 

The villagers stopped talking to each other and stared at him. One of them steeped a little closer. "Hello?" he said, and then touched his mouth, frowning. "I am… speaking your tongue? By magic?" 

Harry nodded. "So we understand each other," he said. He knew that was what he'd said, but he was aware that there was magic wrapped around the words, magic that would make them clear to whoever listened. He'd used the charm before. The strangeness of the sensation didn't fade, and neither did the sense that he was in a dubbed Muggle film, in which people's lips didn't move in time with the words they spoke. 

"I am Degyel," the man said. "You and your friends are magicians, yes? You have a walking box." 

Slightly helplessly, Harry nodded. Behind him, he heard Ponder hiss, "Not *magicians*. *Wizards*." 

"Wizards," Harry repeated. "We're wizards." 

"With magic?" Degyel pressed. "Magic?" 

"Yes, that's right," Harry agreed. "But we've, ah, lost our way. If you could…" 

"Magic man?" Degyel said again. "Magic man we have heard of." 

"Ah," Harry said. "Heard of?" 

Degyel nodded proudly, and Harry reached up, to brush the hair from his forehead and reveal his scar. But Degyel was pointing, and it wasn't at him. 

"Malfoy!" said Degyel, happily, and looked to Harry for confirmation. 

"Err—yes," Harry said, glancing at the blond man on the walking box. "Yes, that's Draco Malfoy." He bit his tongue before he added, 'my lover', thinking that it was best to give them the information one step at a time. 

Degyel looked puzzled. "Draco Malfoy?" he repeated, and then shook his head. "Lucius Malfoy." 

Outraged, Draco stood up. Harry noticed—because years with Draco taught one to notice such things—that he took his weight on his supposedly injured ankle without so much as a flinch. 

"No," Draco said firmly. "Draco Malfoy. Lucius is *dead*!" 

Degyel and the other villagers recoiled from the fierce attack, and Harry laid a hand on Draco's arm. "Not now, Draco," he said, quietly. "Let me sort this out." 

Draco subsided a little, enough to take a step back. 

Harry held out his hands again, in what he hoped was a friendly and reassuring way. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong person there. Is there another—ah—magic worker around here?" 

The villagers looked at each other. Eventually, Degyel looked Harry in the eye, and nodded. "Not here," he said. "We're just a hunting party. In the proper village, over the next mountain, there is magic man." 

"Could you give me detailed directions?" Hermione asked, stepping forward. 

"End the magic," Degyel said suddenly, making a chopping motion across his chest. "Stop it." 

Startled, Hermione said, "_Finite Incantatem._" 

The villagers huddled again, talking quickly in low voices, though they kept casting nervous glances at the strangers. 

"Do you have a plan at all?" Gytha asked Harry. 

Harry shrugged. "Experience suggests that almost anywhere you go, there's a little group of wizards there if you ask around enough. And if they've heard of Lucius Malfoy…" 

"… they're real, if not exactly up-to-date with the latest news," Draco said wryly. "That is to say, about fifty years behind." 

"It can't be easy to get newspapers up here," Hermione said. "Besides, I suspect they thought you were Lucius reincarnated or as a zombie or something, not really him. And—don't take this the wrong way, Draco—I'm a little concerned about how pleased they were to see you." 

Draco was about to take it the wrong way, when Harry spun around suddenly, away from the group. 

Degyel had tapped his shoulder, and said something clearly in his native language. 

"Oops," Hermione said, then cast the translation charm again. "That should help." 

"Thank you," Degyel said to her. To Harry, he said, "We will give you a guide. My son and my sister's son know the way and are of an age; they will accompany you the day's walk to see the magician, and introduce you to him. We help you," he cast a glance at Draco, "because we have no choice. You have power." 

His look took in the others, too: Ponder, just behind Harry and trying to be as brave; Gytha, standing close to Hermione; Hermione herself, apparently deep in thought but also attentive to the situation; and Rincewind, now sitting on the Luggage at the back of the group, glancing nervously around in the process of plotting his escape route. Two of them were armed with six-foot staffs, Draco had his wand out, and everyone had seen the walking box. They were quite the frightening sight to unknowing eyes. 

"That's very kind of you," Harry said. "Can we…" he hesitated. He wanted to offer to help them somehow, probably with magic, but he was well aware that the Ministry considered that against the rules. He had, after all, written the rules. 

"Go to the magician," Degyel said. It was almost an order. 

"What's his name?" Harry asked, but Degyel shook his head. 

"Not for me to say." One of the women, who had bustled off after the villager's huddle, returned, carrying a basket of food. She handed it to a young man with a striking resemblance to Degyel before pushing him forward. "This is my son, Yinpar," Degyel said, and then waved to another young man, "and this is my sister-son, Potrul. They will go with you." 

The two teenagers stood close together. They eyed the wizards worriedly. 

"I don't bite," Harry said, grinning at them and ignoring Draco's muttering. "Shall we be going?" 

They nodded, and Harry was irresistibly reminded of Fred and George Weasley. 

"Which way?" Hermione asked. 

They pointed south-east, into the mountains, an exercise slightly defeated by the fact that there were mountains all around them, and they all looked the same. 

"Right," Harry said. He took a deep breath and then started off in the direction they had indicated. 

* * * 

"Ook." 

Angua nodded. "Ah, that explains it." 

"What does?" asked Vimes suspiciously. 

"He thinks that when the spell went wrong, only the wizards were contributing enough power to be swept away by it," explained Angua. "Magrat and Mrs Ogg were left behind because of their being witches." 

Vimes blinked. "You got all that from 'ook?'" 

Angua nodded. "Yes, sir. The Librarian also says that the wizards have probably been taken to the same place as the giant. They'll have to make their own way back." 

"Oh." Vimes thought about it. "They're wizards. They'll turn up, they always do. Ah, Carrot." 

"Reporting, sir," said Carrot, who was on horseback. "The Queen insisted on accompanying me." 

"Commander Vimes." Magrat was looking and sounding a monarch. "The Librarian has just been attempting to explain things to Mrs Ogg. She's a little panicky about Gytha. I'm sorry everything didn't go as well as expected." 

"It went as well as _I_ expected, ma'am," replied Vimes frankly, and swung himself up on his horse. On his other side, Angua did the same, and the Librarian clambered up behind Carrot. "Thank you very much for your hospitality." 

"It was no trouble at all, commander. Please, give my regards to the Patrician, and have a safe journey." 

"I certainly shall. Thank you again." With a nod for her and a click of his tongue, Vimes jerked into motion. He wasn't a natural horseman, unlike Angua, who had a werewolf's natural seat[1], and Carrot, who had a king's. Vimes had grown up in the gutter and was more accustomed to the under surface of a horse. 

Magrat bid goodbye to Carrot, Angua and the Librarian, and watched them go, riding in triangular formation across the rocky ground, across the icy stream and down towards the flat country. From this vantage point, she could see them getting more and more distant until they were three small moving blurs, raising dust on the spreading expanse of the Sto plains. It would take them three days to reach Ankh-Morpork, riding fast. 

* * * 

High above the twin cities of Ankh and Morpork, young Sam Vimes was sitting at his window. The river was downwind of him, which meant he could enjoy the morning air in some comfort. He let his legs dangle from the windowsill, and stared dreamily into the distance. Beyond the city gates stretched the plains, with its traders and merchants, bandits and highwaymen, raising dust as they rode through the clear air. 

Sam sighed and swung his feet from side to side. And something prodded him, hard. He turned indignantly to see a large black bird. It had its head thoughtfully inclined to one side, and it was better-fed than the average city bird, with longer, glossier feathers. Sam wasn't altogether surprised when it prodded him again and asked, "What's up with you, then?" 

"You're from the University, aren't you?" Sam said. "That's why you can talk." 

"That's right, kid." It hopped neatly onto the windowsill to sit beside him. "Genuine talking bird, me. A Tower of Art raven, if you want to be precise. Bloody wizards. Throwing magical waste out all over the place. I hatched from my egg on the Tower of Art, nested there my whole life, and then I wake up one morning and I'm only friggin' _conscious_, ain't I? Suddenly aware of my shallow meaningless existence and my insignificant place in the multiverse. Gets right up your nose, that does. Metaphorically speaking, o' course. Enough about me." It prodded him again. "What's up with you?" 

Sam blinked. "What do you mean?" 

"Come off it, kid." The raven peered at him. "It's eight o'clock in the morning and you're hanging out the bloody window. Why aren't you out in the Mended Drum, terrorising the elderly, that kind of thing?" 

"Ah." Sam sighed deeply. "It's not important." 

"It bloody well _is_. Spill it." 

"Well…" Sam looked at the raven curiously. "Do you… do you have a girlfriend?" 

The raven fluttered its feathers indignantly. "I think _not_, kid." 

"Oh." Sam stared, and realisation dawned. "You're a girl, aren't you?" 

"Bloody human way of putting it, but yeah, I am. You, on the other claw, are not. So who's the lucky girl? Has she gone off and left you?" 

"Not in the way you mean," Sam replied, suddenly conscious of the fact he was discussing his problems with a talking raven. The raven herself seemed to realise what he was thinking. 

"Tell me all about it," she said, still as hoarsely as ever but somehow kindly. "It's not like I have anything better to do. I'm as useless as a talking bird, as they say." 

"It's like this." Sam hesitated, but plunged on. "She's apprenticed to a wizard at the University." 

"Oh. A _magical_ one. You got good taste, kid." 

"And now she's gone off on some kind of quest," said Sam desperately, "because the wizard she's apprenticed to, yeah, his long-lost _father_, or something, turned up in the fireplace, and then they went off with a giant somewhere with my dad and the Watch, and Lord Vetinari, he came to tell Mum that my dad's coming back but Gytha, that's the girl, she isn't, 'cause she got accidentally sent to another world, and I don't think she's ever coming back!" 

"Don't worry, it's all very clear," said the raven calmly. 

"Oh, good." Sam blinked. 

"I mean it," she continued. "I live at the University, right? You overhear a bit. Wizards never learn to keep their voices down. Well, it's, like, what makes the Disc go round? _Stories_. It's all wossname, narrativium." 

"Narrativium?" 

"Sure. Million-to-one chances? Happen nine times out of ten. It's all got to come out right in the end, don't it?" 

"I don't know…" Sam was doubtful. 

"Look at this way. What's the wizard called? Ain't Ridcully, is it? That man shouts too much." 

"What wizard?" 

"The one your girl's apprenticed to." 

"His name's Professor Stibbons. He works with their thinking machine thingy." 

"Oh, you mean _Ponder_," said the raven. "Not bad for a human, him. Anyway, yeah… so, out of all the people who could have turned up in the fireplace, it's his long-lost father? And this happens the same day as a giant turning up in Ankh-Morpork? Million-to-one chances – nine times out of ten. So the girl's in another world, big deal. She'll find her way back. Maybe more long-lost relatives will turn up. It's the _story_." 

"Not necessarily," Sam argued. "It only has to happen that way if you're royalty. The third son of a king, or something." 

"Kid, your father is the Duke of Ankh." 

"Well, yes." Sam looked honestly surprised. "I just never think of him that way. My dad's a _copper_. And" – something else had just occurred to him – "how do you know who I am?" 

The raven preened and fluffed her feathers with a sound like someone riffling through a pack of cards. "Who doesn't? You're young Sam, aren't you?" 

Sam, long since resigned to the fact he would be 'young Sam' in his dotage, nodded. 

"There you go, then. Your girl will come back, don't you worry." She prodded him with her beak again. "Be good. And if you can't be good, sonkies are a penny a packet." 

Sam smiled. "I'll remember. Thank you." 

"T'wasn't no trouble. Look after yourself, kid." She took a step towards the edge of the windowsill and then walked straight off it, falling like a stone for a few metres before she spread her wings and soared towards the sky. Sam waved, and then swung his legs back round into the room. As he did so, there came a knock at the door. Lady Sybil's head appeared round it. "Sam? Oh, you're up." 

"Morning, Mum." 

"Sam, did you hear? Havelock was here earlier, and he said…" 

"I heard, Mum." Sam smiled. "They'll find their way back." 

  


* * *

[1] Despite what one might otherwise think, a werewolf's natural seat does not consist of bloody long claws dug into the horse's back, a lot of frothing at the mouth and horsy screams, at least not when the werewolf isn't, err, a wolf. 


	13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve: A Charming Memory of Adultery 

_"…it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have- but it's a start, Harry, it's a start." - Prof. Gilderoy Lockhart_

Having indicated with pointing and a few words through the translating charm which hut belonged to the wizard, the boys stuck their tongues out in a friendly gesture and then turned back towards home. They were clearly nervous about getting too close to the house. 

It was a roughly-built thing, more ramshackle than the others in the village, and no-one here seemed keen to greet them. A few women hurried about in the distance, but they seemed to take no notice of the newcomers. 

"I guess we'd better try knocking," Harry said. The whole group seemed suddenly hesitant. 

He took a couple of steps forward, but stopped short of the door when it was opened from the inside. 

The man who stood there was, surprisingly, white-skinned under his tan. His hair was a tawny-blond streaked with white, and his eyes were a shade of grey which reminded Hermione—recently tuned in to noticing family resemblances—of Draco. Something about his face reminded her of someone else, too, though she couldn't be sure what. 

The man stared at them for a moment. Finally, he said (without the aid of a translating charm), "Come to make sure there isn't another heir?" He sounded bitterly amused. 

Harry was at the front of the group, but the man fixed his eyes on Draco, who shook his head. "What do you mean?" 

The man returned to silent staring, and Gytha decided that it was time someone moved the conversation along. "I'm hungry," she said. 

There was a chorus of agreement from the other Discworld wizards. "You're not alone," Ponder said. "Is there any chance…" 

"Of course." Apparently even Roundworld wizards had a reasonable sense of hospitality, because the man stepped back, waving them in. "I'm afraid I've only got local food-- rice and yak butter—but I'm sure you'll all survive." His voice dropped slightly. "I'm also afraid I can't invite you all in by name." 

"Oh," Harry blushed. "Sorry. Introductions. I'm Harry Potter, this is…" 

"Draco Malfoy," the man said. "I guessed that one." 

"Draco; Hermione Gra—sorry, Pince; my son Ponder Stibbons; his apprentice Gytha Ogg; and Rincewind and his Luggage." The Luggage attempted a many-kneed bow. 

"Well, come in," the man repeated, although he eyed the Luggage slightly worriedly. "I'm Ichabod Lockhart." 

"Lockhart?" Hermione asked, frowning at him as she filed past. "The nose, of course, but—the eyes?" 

Ichabod sighed. "Are the giveaway. Look, sit down—anywhere there's space—and I'll tell you who I am while you eat." 

The room was full of odd items balanced on every flat surface—dried roots, bits of animal bodies, cauldrons with a little stain of something sticky in the bottom, and suchlike magical debris. There were only three books. Hermione noted that they all had the word 'potion' in the title. 

Ichabod bustled for a while, sorting out seats (though Rincewind opted to sit on the Luggage), clean-ish dishes, and food. Eventually they were all chewing, and he sat down with them. 

"So oo ar oo?" Draco enquired, his mouth full of rice. 

Harry swallowed and translated, "He means, who are you?" 

"I'm Ichabod Lockhart, and on my birth certificate it says I'm the son of Narcissa Black. As it happens, I'm about seven years younger than Draco." 

They chewed in silence for a moment, shocked or bemused depending on their backgrounds. When he reached the end of his mouthful, Draco said, "You're my illegitimate half-brother." 

Ichabod nodded. 

"You must have been born during the year my mother spent in India when I was seven," Draco went on in a conversational tone. "Lockhart was yeti-hunting about that time." 

"Yes," Ichabod said. "As far as I know, that's right. But, if you'll excuse me, why is the famous Harry Potter—yes, I may not have heard much news in the last fifty years, but I do know who Harry Potter is—here with his son and Draco Malfoy?" 

"That's… not easy to answer," Harry said. "Um." 

"Firstly, we ought to make it clear that we're not really here to see you. I mean, that's not why we're in the Himalayas, and we've got no interest in hurting you," Hermione said. 

He nodded, though he didn't look much comforted. "But why are you here?" 

"Well," Harry took over, having marshalled his thoughts, "It's complicated. If you think of it as…" 

"… a matter of common knowledge," Draco said with a sharp smile. "Harry and I are here together because—as you'd know if you had access to Western wizarding news—we've officially been a couple for forty-two years now." 

"There's that, for starters," Harry agreed, "and there's also the string of magical accidents and coincidences which could reasonably be compared to a ball of tangled string with a being played with by a small swamp dragon and a large and aggressive kitten. Let's just say that it was magical and it didn't go as intended" – Ichabod looked like he knew all about that sort of thing—"and these three," here Harry indicated Gytha, Ponder, and Rincewind, "have been living on another world all their lives, and would like to go home." 

"And so would I," Draco said. "Home. England. My own bed." 

"Right." Harry agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment. 

Ichabod nodded, studying them carefully. 

"Have you got any, err—Floo powder?" Ponder asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word but still hopeful. 

"I'm afraid no," Ichabod said. "I've always been too afraid of my existence being discovered by either Lucius or some remaining Black family member to join the Floo network, and the local magic-using lamas prefer to Apparate. The nearest people I know who would have any are the Ministry Outpost in India." 

They all look so disappointed—like the villagers when he stopped telling stories, which was what they expected from a wizard and hence why they knew so much about Lucius Malfoy and others—that he added, "It's not that far. Three days' journey, maybe, if you buy some horses." 

At the mention of horses, Ponder cheered up immensely. 

"If you could give us directions…" 

Ichabod thought for a moment, head tipped to one side in a gesture Harry thought he must have learned from Narcissa, because it seemed hauntingly similar to the way Draco sometimes looked. "Better than that," he said. "I'm about due for a break from the potions work I'm doing here. I'll come with you, just as far as the research lab." 

Noises of happy agreement came from all corners of the room. The plan was settled. 

* * * 

Once on horseback—the villagers, given the news that Ichabod would be out of town for a while and a promise that he would bring the horses back with him, had been quite happy to lend them mounts—Draco and Ponder, and for that matter Gytha, were much happier, even just sitting in the road waiting to head off. 

Harry was feeling more than a little embarrassed; for some reason, he'd assumed that Hermione wouldn't be able to ride, even if she pretended she'd done it before. He'd been startled when she swung herself confidently up and sat as if she'd been born in the saddle, and had made the mistake of saying so. 

She'd looked down at him—something she hadn't been able to do since his fifth-year growth spurt—and said, "I used to be a teenage girl, Harry, of course I can ride," before trotting away to confer with Ichabod about their route. 

Rincewind was muttering something about preferring sandals because they were easier to escape on, and the Luggage was dancing around the horses' hooves, apparently trying to get kicked. 

Eventually, they were all mounted and ready to go. Harry clung tight to Draco, enjoying the chance to hug him even as he hated the feeling of trying to balance on a moving animal with a mind of its own. Well, actually… he tried to stop his mind concerning itself with teenage girls, horses, and reasons for the association thereof, but something in the combination of near-panic and Draco's closeness gave his mind a mind of its own. 

He shook his head. This was all most unpleasant. And because he hadn't been warned that they were going to partake in a gigantic battle against fate and the elements, there had been no chance to indulge in any of the things that traditionally preceded such fights. 

If he'd been able to interest Draco in that on his birthday, they might not be here. On the other hand, such traditions seemed to have created large parts of the problem. 

Well, he thought, you win some, you lose some. He tried to shrug philosophically, but Draco snapped, "Sit still, Harry, for crying out loud!" 

"Okay, okay," Harry said, and then more quietly, "Sorry. Love you." 

Draco gave no sign of having heard. Harry wondered if that was because he didn't want to talk, or because he really hadn't heard. He considered saying it again, as a sort of test, but he didn't get the chance. 

The path had widened a little as they entered a valley, and Ichabod rode up beside them. "So," he said. "Tell me a little more—just what's common knowledge in Britain—who was Ponder's mother, for starters?" 

"Err," said Harry. He was tired. Once, he'd been able to diplomatically fend off questions for hours. It had been a large part of his job as Minister for Magic. Now, though, he was torn between wanting to fend them off, and an urge towards honesty which had been nearly (but not quite) beaten out of him during his years in politics. 

"Well, it's not actually common knowledge that Harry *has* a son," said Draco. "I didn't know myself until a matter of days ago." 

Harry noticed that he'd carefully left out the fact that *Harry* hadn't known until around the same time. 

"Mind you," Draco went on reflectively, "I didn't know I had a brother until about lunchtime today. Funny how these things turn up, isn't it?" 

He smiled at Ichabod with the cold smile that sent shivers down the spine of the average person. Ichabod merely returned it. "Yes, very strange," he said. "Even stranger that he should have grown up on a different world." 

"Hardly anyone's fault, though," Draco replied. "Considering he was sent there before he was born by Voldemort." 

The name clunked into the air and hung there for a moment while Ichabod paled. "Ah…" he said. "I… um… you say that name?" 

"My boyfriend blasted him off the face of the earth," Draco said with a carefully casual wave of the hand. 

Ichabod looked at Harry, who found it in himself to lift his head and meet his eyes. 

"Besides," Harry said, "the name Voldemort itself never had any power except what we gave it by trying to avoid it." 

"Right," Ichabod nodded nervously. 

Harry pressed the advantage. "Anyway, I'm sure you're not interested in that ancient history," he said with a bright smile. "Tell us some more about yourself, and what it's like to live out here in the wilds of nowhere." 

"It's… mostly it's boring," Ichabod said. "High and cold and dangerous and quite often smelly." 

"Sounds like Lancre," Gytha put in, riding up on Harry and Draco's other side. "Only even higher—the air is a little thinner up here than it is in Bad Ass, more like if you go up into the higher Ramtops." 

"Bad Ass?" Ichabod repeated, incredulous. 

Gytha nodded. "It's just one of those things. Tell me about this place, anyway." 

"Well, it's some of the highest country on the planet," Ichabod said, sounding a little proud of his homeland. "It's also inaccessible, which I imagine is why my parents chose it for me." 

"You know," Draco said, "I knew my mother was keen on children being seen and not heard, but I never realised how lucky I was to be good-looking enough that she could bear to see me." 

It was pointed, well timed, and splendidly effective. No-one could find anything to say in reply before the path narrowed again and conversation became impossible.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen: Foreigners 

_"No, I am not the Headless Horseman." – Ichabod Lockhart_

Ichabod proved a knowledgeable guide. A day of hard riding later, the travellers found themselves on what was no longer a path but could be described accurately as a real road. It might be the sort of road to give vertigo sufferers just cause to have a good lie down, but it was still a road, cut into the mountainside and making its way down in a series of sharp curves and hairpin bends. The further down they went, the more verdant the landscape, the thicker the trees edging down the sheer rock to the road. They stayed on the inner side, close to the rock wall; only Ponder, easily the best rider, dared make his careful way to the other edge. A simple, fragile fence made up of hammered wooden posts and two lengths of wire were all that stood between him and the drop, steep and sheer for hundreds of metres down to the next loop of the road. Ponder took in the view for a few seconds before shivering slightly and moving away. His horse appreciated it, taking him back to the other edge rather faster than he had intended. 

Ichabod raised his eyebrows as Ponder's horse careered to a halt. "Don't see that every day, do you?" he said wryly. "A lesson to you all – be careful."  
  
As he spoke, an unfamiliar sound made Ponder, Gytha and Rincewind suddenly turn. As Ponder watched, something rounded the corner – something moving, making a whirring noise, but with no apparent source of power. It was shiny and metallic with glass used in its construction, and Gytha's mouth dropped open as it went smoothly past them and disappeared around the next bend. "What was _that_?" she demanded of everyone in particular. 

Harry paused. "That was a car," he said. "They're a Muggle invention." 

Ponder's ears had pricked up. "_Science_," he said, pronouncing the word carefully. 

"Science?" Harry repeated, amused by the earnest expression on the younger wizard's face. He wondered if he had ever been quite so eager to learn as his son seemed to be. 

"Yes," said Ponder, nodding his head. "It's what your world has as well as magic, doesn't it? Hex said…" 

"That's right," Harry told him. They had all stopped moving when the car went by, and the horses were shifting from foot to foot. "Cars… well, they're not magic. I suppose you could call them science, or technology maybe. They have engines inside them that… well, make them go. Like I said, Muggles use them." 

"Muggles?" Ponder repeated, and if Harry hadn't already made Draco rein in the horse, he would have most definitely done it at that point. 

He decided to explain it step by step. "Ponder, you know in Ankh-Morpork? Commander Vimes knows you're a wizard, doesn't he? Lord Vetinari, too?" 

"Of course." Ponder sounded puzzled. 

"Is it because of their rank, or does everyone in the city know you're a wizard?" 

"I don't think I _know_ everyone in the city." 

"No, that's not it. I guess what I'm trying to say," Harry floundered, having never had to explain this concept before, "is that in our world, wizards keep magic secret." 

"Muggles are people who aren't wizards or witches," Hermione put in. Draco apparently felt the discussion beneath him. "And we try to make sure they don't know we exist." 

"But why?" asked Gytha, sounding frankly bewildered. "Who do people go to if they need help?" 

"Muggles have other ways of getting help. Doctors, and people," said Harry vaguely. "It's all science. But the point is, if we meet anyone on our way…" 

"We don't do magic," finished Ichabod, who had been listening to this with quiet amusement. "We don't make any mention of the fact we're different." 

"Not even to other witches or wizards?" asked Rincewind. He was almost in a good mood. He'd have got through much less shoe-leather if people hadn't know he was a wizard. Somehow it made you a magnet for trouble. 

"Only if you're sure they're a witch or wizard," said Ichabod firmly. "And take off your hats, all of you." 

Ponder's eyes widened. Rincewind was already taking off his, though, and Gytha didn't have one yet because of her being a student, so in the end he gave in. But instead of stowing it into his pack as Rincewind had done, Ponder carefully positioned the battered wizard's hat on the horse's head. Ichabod raised his eyebrows. 

"I'm a foreigner," explained Ponder simply, and Ichabod grinned. 

"You're getting the hang of this." 

* * * 

At about lunchtime, a few more cars and several bullock-carts had gone past, as had whole families on foot, apparently carrying all their possessions in bundles tied to sticks. Ponder, his eyes and ears open for the new sights and sounds coming his way from every direction, was the first to see the building. "Oh, my," was all he said; having halted his horse at the edge of the road again, he was looking out over the wooden-post fence. 

From the viewpoint of the others, it looked like any other building, built of ramshackle wood and stone, with large windows and a tin roof. But from where Ponder was sitting, he could see down towards the valley floor and sheer side of the mountain, and had a clear view of the massive stone brick pillars rising from the steep incline so the building on the top was just at road level. 

Ichabod glanced across. The building was a shop, with a crooked wooden sign on the top and a small chalkboard leaning against the wall. It was covered in curling Devanagari script and numbers – a price list. A plastic table and large, faded red-and-white umbrella completed the scene. "Anyone want something to eat?" he asked. 

"Anyone got any money?" asked Harry with the exact same inflection, and quickly had them all turning out their pockets. Once the little heap of money had been counted, the total was duly recorded as being one gold Galleon, three Sickles, four Ankh-Morpork half-dollars and one pound and seventy-five pence, pound sterling. 

"Ah," said Ichabod, and turned out _his_ pockets. Some raggedy, faded red notes appeared, and he smiled. "Couple of hundred rupees, but it'll be enough." He paused and added, "You can pay me in the Ankh-Morpork stuff. Not many people can say they've got money from another world. Right. Tea, anyone?" 

Most of them answered in the affirmative, but Gytha looked uncomfortable. "Any chance of coffee?" she asked nervously. 

Ichabod shook his head. "Up here? Not on your life. You've got a choice between tea, and… tea, I'm afraid. I wouldn't trust anything that hasn't been boiled." 

Gytha nodded, and Ichabod ventured across to the little shop. The owner, an olive-skinned, barefoot man wearing a straw hat, appeared to ask him what he wanted, but it was in a language they didn't understand. 

"I think that's Hindi," Hermione whispered. "It's the main language in India." 

"Sounds like Klatchian to me," muttered Rincewind, who was quite possibly the best linguist among them. 

Ichabod replied in the same language, and a few minutes later, he carried across a tray of plastic cups filled with tea. All of them except Ponder dismounted to drink it, and walked up and down, shaking out their feet and legs. The closer they got to the valley, the more agreeable the climate. It wasn't snowing any more, but it was still a cold grey day and banks of clouds were visible even below them. Harry found the tea warming. When he blew on it gently to cool it, he could see his breath. 

As he stood there, contemplating the view some distance away from the others, Gytha came up to him. He opened his mouth to make a simple greeting, but she cut across him. "Do you think Ponder's stupid?" she demanded. 

Harry reeled a little at her forthrightness. "I never…" he began, but she cut across him again. 

"Before, when you were explaining about the," she fumbled for the word, "car. Did you think Ponder was stupid? 

"Gytha! Of course not!" 

She smiled grimly. "I was just thinking," she said, "he thinks you're a hero in your world. But you don't know anything about him." 

"Gytha, why are you doing this?" Harry asked. He really wanted to know. 

"Because," she hesitated, "_he_ wouldn't tell you this, and someone ought to." She was building up a head of steam again. "You know, he designed and built Hex from scratch. He's the only wizard ever to have split the thaum. And he was about my age when he did it. He may not be quite like you…" She trailed off. 

Harry waited to make sure she really had finished before he spoke. "Gytha, I appreciate your honesty." Off her look, he continued, "No, I really do. But please understand that I wasn't aware of Ponder's existence until about a week ago. I think I can safely say allowances ought to be made." 

She was silent, so he went on: "I do not think he's stupid. Far from it. But he's different, and rightly so! It means that perhaps I understand some things that he doesn't. It works both ways. He's my son, he looks like me, but he's grown up in another world, and there are things he knows about that I don't. It's to be expected; he's done without me for his entire life, and from what you say, he's done well. What happens from here on in is entirely up to him." Harry stopped, then rubbed at his eyes. "Why am I telling you this?" 

"You had to tell someone," said Gytha reasonably. 

"Right. Yes." He was still rubbing at his eyes. "Oh… is it time to go?" 

It was. The cups of tea had been drunk and discarded. Ichabod was chivvying along the people and Ponder was doing the same for the horses. Groaning, Harry swung himself up behind Draco and they were off again. 

* * * 

They rode into the city as night fell. At first, it was hard to tell there was civilisation on the way – maybe a few more people on the roads, and maybe the roads themselves were flatter and better suited to wheels than hooves – but as they rounded the last loop, they found themselves riding almost on a level, past pedestrians and yet more bullock-carts and huge, multicoloured trucks. Harry wondered why six people on horseback weren't attracting any attention, but he soon realised that theirs wasn't the most unorthodox method of transport by a long shot. As well as cars and pedestrians (who seemed quite comfortable walking in the middle of the road), he saw rickshaws and scooters and donkeys pulling laden carts with small boys perched at the top and single-seater bicycles laden with five or more people. Every time Harry looked up, there were more people but it seemed to be getting darker, and he realised with a jolt that this close to the Equator, twilight was a few brief, fleeting minutes, nothing like the long evenings in Derbyshire. 

By the sides of the road, fires were being lit. Some were for their heat and light, but judging from the spices in the air, a considerable few were for cooking. Harry saw people casually reach into the flames with bare hands, and grab blackened and charred sweet potatoes, corn-on-the-cob, and other things Harry hadn't seen before. Despite the searing heat, the food was eaten with every semblance of pleasure, and the food vendors were doing good business. Behind them, in the shadows of the firelight, Harry saw the stalls and shops, some made of wood or brick, but most mere blankets or canvas on a framework and sporting single, bare lightbulbs. Harry wished they had more time to simply take in the scene. Even riding at a walking pace, he missed looking at everything he would have liked to see. The air seemed thick with heat and purple with smoke, the swaying motion of the horse was lulling and the darkness was still getting thicker, and at length Harry felt himself slipping into a deliciously dreamlike state of mind. 

He was jerked into full consciousness some time later. With a start, he realised the traffic had become less, and the street seemed almost completely pedestrianised. There were no more wandering cattle or small stalls – they were in a proper shopping street now. Harry was almost disappointed. 

"We're almost there," Ichabod said, his voice carrying. "You see the hill in front of us?" 

They all nodded. They certainly did see it; the road split into two at this point, one tree-lined branch heading straight ahead, and the other branch also heading straight ahead but on a steep incline. 

"Well, that's where we're going. Try not to tread on anyone." 

As they climbed slowly up, the horses doing their best to keep pace with each other, Harry continued taking everything in. The people and the shops continued up the hill as if it weren't there – Harry suspected that the residents were so used to it that it might as well not be. A low stone wall prevented anyone from falling off the edge onto the other branch of the road below, and as Harry looked, he saw a plaque set into it at about eye-level, or at least where eye-level would have been had he been walking. Nevertheless, he leaned over to try and read what it said, with some success: 

f'keyk 

Shimla

August 15th 1947 

"Shimla," he said out loud. 

Ichabod glanced up at him. "Oh, you know." 

"Know what?" Harry asked. 

"Okay… so you don't know." Ichabod grinned. "The name of the place. Shimla. Northern capital of India." 

"India has two capitals?" asked Hermione. Evidently this piece of information was new to her as well, which pleased Harry somewhat. If she didn't know, he had every excuse not to know either. 

"Not exactly, but it did once. When the British were here…" 

One or two things clicked into place in Harry's brain. You couldn't be Minister of Magic for any length of time without picking up a few things, and certain matters were coming back to him now. It was to do with the British Empire, and the Commonwealth, and there, that was it – that was what had been bothering him about this place… 

"New Delhi was much too hot during the summer months," Ichabod continued. "So, every March, the entire government used to load themselves onto trains and make their way up here." He let go of the reins for a moment and motioned at the city. "It never gets properly hot here – at least, not the way it does in the south – so they made another capital for themselves." 

"That's why it looks like home!" Harry put in, unable to stop himself. "The shops, the pavements…" 

As they reached the crest of the hill, Harry was proven right. Carefully positioned at the very top was a small, stone building that could have been any English town hall. It had a large space of white flagstones in front of it, and people were thronging there as they did everywhere else, only with no fear of being run over. The little shops and stalls looked semi-permanent, and with no cooking fires. It probably wasn't a good idea so close to the city officials, Harry mused. The town hall behind them had men dressed in uniforms patrolling in front of it – either soldiers or policemen. But they didn't seem to have any objection to the company of horses, and after a moment, Harry realised why. Up here, there were no cars or carts, but there were some bicycles and there most definitely were horses. Unlike the wizards' horses, however, they looked more like Shetland ponies, and the only riders seemed to be children and lightly built adults. There weren't any demarcation lines, but nevertheless, they were following a fixed path, and they all seemed to be very interested in something at the far end of the square. 

"What's going on over there?" Hermione wondered. 

Ichabod seemed hesitant, not replying for a few seconds. But after a moment, he smiled, and looked straight at Ponder. "You can go," he said. "You're the best rider. Just ride across, not too fast, not too slow, keep your head, and come back and tell your friends about it." 

Ponder looked puzzled, but he went. As per instructions, his horse wasn't quite walking and wasn't quite trotting, and after several seconds, Harry saw him ride in a circle. For a few seconds, he was moving at right angles to them, apparently prevented from going further away, and a minute later, he had ridden back. 

"What is it?" Hermione demanded. 

Ponder laughed, but his eyes were wide. "I thought we were in the valley!" he exclaimed. 

"Not quite." Ichabod smiled. "All right, you lot – go and see, but walk." 

Harry slipped off from behind Draco and walked across with some difficulty. The road seemed to be rocking back and forth with the swaying motion of a horse. Nevertheless, he managed to get there without major incident, and in the last rays of daylight, he saw what Ponder had seen. At the edge of the square, the ground simply fell away. Harry peered downwards, but he couldn't quite see the bottom. Thousands of feet below, it was hidden by the coming darkness. In front of them were other mountains, summits wreathed in mists. It was as if the city had suddenly come to a stop in mid-air and beyond this point, nothingness. All there was in between them and the drop was another small, wooden fence. Harry suddenly realised that Ponder, on horseback, would have been higher than the level of the barrier. As he watched, some of the children on ponies rode by, clearly exhilarated by their proximity to the abyss. They trotted past and were gone, riding in circles only to come back again. Harry could feel the compulsion; after all, the view was spectacular. He only wished he didn't feel as if the bottom was about to fall out of his brain. 

Hermione seemed the most startled of all of them. "I thought we were in the valley!" she said, unconsciously echoing Ponder's words of a few moments before. 

"We are, sort of," said Ichabod. "But the valleys are themselves higher than the next set of mountains. If you go that way" – he pointed north – "you reach the foothills of the Himalayas, which is where we came from. If you go the other way" – he moved his arm so it was pointing south – "you'll eventually come out of the mountains altogether, going further and further down until you reach the Deccan. The plains," he clarified for Gytha, who looked confused for a moment. 

"It's like home," she said after a while. "Lancre is high up among the Ramtops, so if you're going towards Ankh-Morpork, you have to go down and down until you reach the Sto plains. It's the same thing."

"Indeed," said Ichabod, smiling at her sage manner of speaking. "And now, I believe we have to see the Ministry?" 

"Oh, yes," said Harry dazedly. The interesting journey had almost made him forget its objective. 

"Then come on."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen: Bureaucracy 

_"…having filled out form SFAW-76/77a(iii), those seeking asylum/citizenship/escape from ravening monsters from Dungeon Dimensions/none of the above, skip questions 11-13 and request form SFAW-78b(iv)…" – Megha Varma, A Beginner's Guide to Customs and Excise_

The horses had to stay outside. Ichabod was ready to hang back and keep an eye on them, but Harry objected. "First show us where to go." 

They were led to the large, imposing front door of the building. Harry noticed that until now he had been automatically assuming it was the town hall because of its appearance, but he was about to be proven right. Ichabod talked smoothly and quietly to the city officials as they paced up and down in their appointed paths, and eventually, they stood aside and allowed him to rap at the door. 

Nothing happened for so long that Harry was afraid no one had heard, but at length the heavy wooden door did creak open. It was hard to see clearly into the darkened interior because of the bright sunlight outside, but Harry managed to discern a long, empty corridor, painted that particular shade of olive green you only ever saw in schools, hospitals and government buildings. There was another city official just within, not pacing up and down but standing to attention. What looked unpleasantly like a bayonet was balanced on his shoulder. Ichabod spoke to him too quietly for any of the other wizards to make out the words; Harry wondered exactly what was being said and how their presence was being explained. 

Whatever was happening, it didn't seem to be in their favour. After a moment the guard shook his head emphatically in a way that needed no translation, and the door was slammed shut. Being made out of solid wood, the sound it made was particularly final. 

Ichabod didn't seem disheartened. With an impatient wave of his hand, he silenced Harry and rapped again at the door. Whereas earlier the knocking had been completely random, this time it had a clear rhythm to it – four short raps, then two long ones, then another short one. After a shorter interval than last time, the door opened again. 

Harry didn't try so hard to see inside this time, having seen it before, but certain things caught his attention. The colour of the walls, for one thing – now no longer olive green—were pale blue. It wasn't a dramatic change in hue, and it would perhaps go unnoticed if people weren't paying attention, but Harry noticed and smiled. He had a feeling he knew what was going on. Sure enough, the guard was different. He wasn't wearing uniform; rather, ordinary Muggle jeans and a jacket. But he was smiling, unarmed, and wearing a wizard's hat. Harry glanced back at his companions. One by one, they all smiled as the same thoughts dawned on them. 

The guard stepped back, Ichabod entered and Harry followed, everyone else just behind him. The horses were forgotten for the moment as they proceeded down the long, darkened corridor. The floor was polished and the walls slightly patchy and discoloured; it was so much like any Muggle building that for a moment, Harry doubted himself. But at that moment, some light from a high, narrow window caught their guide, illuminating a stick of polished wood sticking out of his pocket. Harry smiled, and suddenly decided he might do well to take a lesson from Ponder. There was no harm in asking questions; whether they were answered or not was a different matter, but there was no harm in _asking_. 

"There's two doors, isn't there?" he whispered hurriedly to Ichabod as they walked along. 

"Depends on how you look at it," Ichabod whispered back. "There's two doors, yes, but they occupy the same space. The guard will only open the Ministry door if you knock the right way, whereas the Muggle one will open however you knock." 

"Does that mean both doors opened just now?" Harry replied.  
  
Ichabod nodded. "That's right. The Muggle guard is at this moment wondering why there was no one there on the other side of the door." 

At that point, the conversation had to be cut short. The corridor had opened out into a large, circular open space with a large round skylight cut into the roof. The walls were white, as were the floor and ceiling, and they reflected the sunlight so it was almost unbearably bright. Strangely, this reassured Harry. The atmosphere seemed much more… _magical_, for lack of a better word; much more like the surroundings the wizards he knew lived and worked in. 

The guard listened to a few more words from Ichabod, and then led them to one door in particular. He saluted smartly, and disappeared back towards the front door. Ichabod inclined his head in that direction. "Time I went back, too," he said. "Let me know how it goes, if you can." 

And before Harry or anyone else could object, he was gone, following the guard back down the corridor. Harry shrugged. "Well?" 

"Just knock on the damn door," Draco told him, and there were murmurs of agreement. Shrugging again, Harry knocked. He wondered if another special rhythm of knocks was required, but it didn't seem to be, for a few seconds later a voice called out. It was muffled and possibly not in English, and Harry turned his head to be met with lots of people shrugging in just as expressive a fashion as he had been. 

He pushed open the door. It opened into a room that could only be described as a den of bureaucracy. Once, it had probably been a tidy office with a solid wood desk, a few chairs, and perhaps a pot plant in the corner, but no longer. The room and its contents seemed to be drowning in paper. Harry, himself a civil servant, thought he recognised certain documents and forms among the mess, and sighed inwardly. 

The occupier was seated behind the desk, head down, scribbling away busily at yet another piece of paper. She looked up at the sound of the door opening. "_Kaun hai_?" she demanded. 

"Um…" Harry began, and looked helplessly at Rincewind, who looked helplessly back. 

"_Kya hua, bhai?_" said the woman, as questioningly as before. 

Harry decided he ought to say something beyond 'um', if only to prove he was capable of speech. "I'm sorry to disturb," he began, but got no further. 

"Ah!" The woman's face cleared immediately. "You would prefer me to speak in English, I see." 

The relief was palpable. "Thank you," Harry said, aware that he had been nominated as spokesperson. "We're strangers here." 

"Not to me," said the woman, smiling. She seemed more amused than surprised. "You are Harry Potter, is that not right? And Draco Malfoy… Hermione Granger… I'm sorry, I don't know any more. What brings you to Shimla, Mr Potter?" 

She had stepped out from behind her desk as she spoke, carelessly kicking pieces of paper out of the way as she did so, and Harry's spirits rose slightly. It seemed as though she had the same slapdash attitude to red tape as he himself had. In standing up, she had revealed herself to be just about Harry's height, maybe a little less, and clearly much younger than he. She was typically Indian, north Indian as Harry was to later learn, with large eyes set in a relatively pale face. Unlike most women they had seen here, her hair was bobbed, framing her face, but she was dressed traditionally, with the flowing chiffon scarf draped around her shoulders. 

"Well…" Harry said slowly. "It's a long story, but to cut it short, we're lost and we need help getting home. Um… how do you know who I am?" 

The woman laughed delightedly. "You must think I don't read newspapers, Mr Potter. Of course I know who you are; and your partner, too. And Miss Granger – I have read many of your published works." 

"It's Mrs Pince now," Hermione said shyly, "and can we ask what your name is?" 

"My name?" She smiled. "My name is Megha – Megha Varma. I am the Northern Consul for the Ministry of Magic." She sighed, and added frankly, "It is not a particularly powerful position, but I hope I will be able to help you." 

"I hope so too," Harry replied. "Um… Miss-" 

"Megha, please." 

"Megha, then – my friends and I have been travelling for some time. We need things like" – Harry floundered – "food, and sleep, and…" 

"But of course." She smiled. "You will tell me what your friends' names are, and we will see about making them more comfortable." 

"Right." Harry nodded, and pointed to himself, then Draco and Hermione. "You know me, and Draco, and Hermione – and that's Rincewind over there, and Gytha Ogg, and this is…" He paused, unsure of how to say it, uncomfortably aware that it was quite likely his next few words could shortly be quoted in every wizarding newspaper on the planet. But a few moments' internal debate resolved the issue. He wasn't ashamed, not of… "My son, Ponder Stibbons." 

To her credit, Megha barely raised her eyebrows. "Forgive me… I didn't know you had a son." Her eyes drifted towards Ponder, and Harry saw her make the same connections everyone else had made. 

"It's part of the reason we're here, really," Harry said honestly. "It might take some time to explain…" 

"There is all the time in the world," Megha declared. "You shall be given food, and somewhere perhaps to rest, and then you shall explain it to me." 

* * * 

"Push off, Senior Wrangler!" 

"Excuse me, my dear sir, but I _outrank_ you." 

"Gentlemen, who is Archchancellor of this university? Why, bless my soul, I do believe it's _me_! I am more important than both of you!" 

Time never runs parallel. The stately raven from the Tower of Art had just hopped into young Sam's life, and his _inamorata_ had just fallen into the sleep of the truly exhausted. 

"_Fine._" The Senior Wrangler folded his arms and sulked, and beside him, the Chair of Indefinite Studies did the same. 

Ridcully was ignoring them. "This thing's a bit fuzzy," he said thoughtfully. "Mr Stibbons – ah, sorry. Dean? Can you make this clearer?"

"Already did my best, Archchancellor," said the Dean mournfully, but he took the crystal ball anyway and gave it a good polish with his robe. Much to Ridcully's surprise, this made all the difference. 

"Ah, much better. Look – there's Rincewind." 

The Senior Wrangler gave up his sulk and eagerly peered over Ridcully's shoulder. In the depths of the crystal, he saw an image beginning to form clearly behind the mists. As Ridcully had said, it was indeed Rincewind, and he wasn't running. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, a white sheet covering most of his face so only his eyes were visible. 

"Rincewind seems alarmingly comfortable there." The Senior Wrangler remarked. "He's clearly up to no good." 

"Oh, all _right_, Chair!" Ridcully exclaimed. The Chair of Indefinite Studies was getting impatient. "There, you can have a look." 

The Chair moved forwards. "Oh!" 

"What?" demanded the Archchancellor. 

"Something's happening!" 

"Living up to your name, I see," sighed the Archchancellor. "What, precisely, is happening?" 

"Let me see!" squealed the Senior Wrangler, and for a moment it did look like he would get a turn, but it was not to be. 

"_Ook._" 

The Senior Wrangler was lightly built for a wizard and the Librarian was a three-hundred-pound orang-utan, and events unfolded as one might expect. 

"Ook," said the Librarian again as the Senior Wrangler picked himself off the floor. "It's all right," translated the Chair in a whisper. "The picture's just moving, that's all…" 

The picture was indeed moving. For some undefined but clearly magical reason, the image in the crystal ball had become less focused, drawing back to show Rincewind lying in a simple wooden bed ("Civilised," said Ridcully) and some distance away, curled up on another bed, the wizards could dimly make out another shape. 

"Ponder," said the Dean suddenly, and once he had said it they could all see it; despite the fact his face was half-hidden in shadow, those peculiarly soft features could only belong to Ponder Stibbons. 

The image was still moving. The third bed contained two people, and the Archchancellor gave the crystal ball a subtle nudge to hurry it up. He didn't want his wizards to start getting ideas. There was nothing more dangerous, in his extensive experience, than a wizard with an idea. 

"Where's the girl?" asked the Lecturer in Recent Runes suddenly. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for the last few minutes. 

"What girl, Runes?" asked Ridcully without looking. He was still focused on the crystal ball. 

"Miss Ogg," persisted the Lecturer in Recent Runes. 

"Ah, young Gytha," said the Dean portentously. "I can't see her." 

"We'll start trying to get a fix on her after lunch," promised Ridcully. "Dear me, I do wish Mr Stibbons was here, he's far better than you lot with this thing." He gave the crystal ball a poke. 

"If Ponder was here, wouldn't that rather negate the exercise, Archchancellor?" asked the Senior Wrangler, who had just about recovered from assault by orang-utan. 

Ridcully pretended not to hear. "Lunchtime, chaps," he declared, and not a wizard among them disagreed. But as they waddled off towards the Great Hall, he did make some thoughtful remarks. "Could be worse. Stranded in another world, never good, but at least they're getting a good night's sleep. And if anything's happened to the girl, no wizard from this university would sleep like that. Sense of righteous outrage would keep them awake, don't you know." 

The Librarian only paused to grab a banana from the Hall. Within a few minutes, he had disappeared through the students' entrance and was even now swinging from rooftop to rooftop on his way to the old Ramkin residence. 

* * * 

"I trust your accommodations were to your liking?" asked Megha, looking anxious. "I was worried that perhaps there might not be space for all of you." 

"Everything was fine," said Harry, feeling a little uncomfortable. "Hermione and Gytha had one room and the males of the species had the other." 

Megha smiled slightly. "You understand we do not often have visitors, particularly from other worlds," she said slowly. "And where are your friends now?" 

The two of them were seated in Megha's bombsite of an office, and one could be forgiven for thinking the atmosphere unnaturally quiet. However, Harry had decided early on that a single person doing the explaining might make things rather a lot less complicated. 

"They're off in the city with Ichabod," Harry explained. "He's Draco's half-brother… it's a long story." 

"Another one?" She sounded amused. 

"Yeah," Harry said, grinning. "Anyway, they're off looking around. Ichabod promised Rincewind some sweet potatoes." 

"I won't ask." She smiled again, then paused. "However, I must ask _some_ things. You know what I mean." 

"Yes, of course." Harry sat up in his chair. "Well, some time ago – I'm not sure how long, to be honest, but it can't be longer than a fortnight – I was at home in Derbyshire with Draco when Ponder's head appeared in the fireplace. After that things started getting _really_ strange." 

She laughed and listened, and as Harry finished talking – "…so we came down from the mountains on horseback, and here we are" – she looked thoughtful. "So all you really want is Floo powder?" she asked. 

"Well, yeah," Harry said, embarrassed. "That's only the start, of course. Once we're back in England, we'll have to figure out how to get Gytha, Rincewind and Ponder home." 

She stared at him; Harry quickly decided she wanted to say something, but was uncomfortable about it. He didn't push her, and after a moment she spoke. "Forgive me, but I must ask you this. The young wizard… your son…" 

"Ponder," said Harry gently. 

"Yes, Ponder. He is your son; is his home then not with you?" 

Harry sighed. "To be honest, I have no idea. I haven't even talked to him properly since we arrived here." 

"He resembles you a great deal." 

"If he stays here, that will be a problem," Harry said decidedly. "He's so instantly recognisable. Still, we'll cross those bridges when we come to them." 

"Indeed." Megha looked almost sad for a moment, then brightened. "Would you like something to drink?" 

"No, thank you. I've already had breakfast; Hermione's a great believer in it." 

"If you change your mind, you need only say and I shall have someone arrange for it." 

Harry was struck by something in what she said. "If you don't mind me asking a question, well… are you the only person who works here? It's just, it's so quiet and I wondered." 

Megha gave him a sly look. "Mr Potter, the Ministry of Magic in India is the world's largest civil employer. Other than me, a great many people do work here. You may have noticed some of them last night." 

Harry didn't say anything and she sighed. "There is Lakshmi, who makes the tea. Monica, who cleans the toilets. Abhi, who stands guard at the door. There are people who do everything, and some of them are even Muggles. But people doing the kind of work I think you mean – well, then there is only me and one other. Krishan is in Delhi at present, making reports for Congress." 

"How come?" Harry asked. "I mean, I don't want to be rude, but…" 

"You are not offending me. The truth is, when the British were here, this was a much more important outpost. It was here all year round, as opposed to the general government, and we reported directly to the British Colonial Secretary. Alas, no longer." She sighed dramatically and grinned. "Independence, when it came, changed everything. Now we are here only nominally. We have all the paperwork and none of the power. Ah… is that your friends I hear?" 

It was. The sound of laughter and talking filtered dimly through the air, and within a minute or two, the door had opened and Draco entered, head thrown back and laughing at something Gytha had just said to him. Harry smiled at the sight as they all filed in. At the back was Rincewind, holding something in his hands and staring at it with the expression of an elderly virgin upon finally finding a man under the bed. 

Harry answered their cheerful greetings, but his eyes were on Rincewind. After a moment, Rincewind opened his palms to reveal two large flat leaves with something balanced on top of them. 

"Sweet potatoes," said Rincewind reverently and slowly, delicately, began to eat them. 

"They're a speciality up here." Ichabod shrugged and looked at Harry, who looked at Ponder, who made _I-don't-get-it-either_ gestures.

Megha watched all this politely and without comment. "Gentlemen," she began, "and ladies" – with a glance at Hermione and Gytha – "now Mr Potter has told me the unfortunate series of events that led you here, you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish, but would I be correct in saying you would prefer to go home now?" 

Harry looked around at his companions, and ascertained the general consensus. They were all nodding, and after his taking a rueful glance at the potatoes, that included Rincewind. 

"That's right," Harry said. "Also, we don't know how long it will be before it becomes impossible for my Discworld friends to return to their homes within the same timeframe." 

"Temporal research is conducted at the Ministry in Delhi, but perhaps it would be better for you if you went to England as quickly as possible," Megha replied. 

Harry nodded. "I think so." 

Megha nodded. "So be it." 

* * * 

The fireplace was in a back room, designed primarily for Floo travel. Though it was not as hot as in the south, there was no need for indoor fires. The jar of Floo powder on the mantelpiece was a welcome sight after their travels. Ichabod had come this far, but declined to go any further. "It's best for everyone that I stay here," he said seriously. "It was nice to meet you all, and I'm glad to have been able to help." He waved away Harry's thanks. "At least you know I exist now, and I have some strange otherworldly coins to remind me it wasn't all a dream." And with farewells all round, he departed. 

"You all know to do it," Harry said once Ichabod had gone. Harry had been addressing everyone in general with specific instructions. "Ponder, you go first." 

Mutely, Ponder took a handful of powder and threw it into the flames. They immediately sizzled and glowed green. Closing his eyes, Ponder yelled, "Malfoy Manor, Derbyshire!" and stepped into the flames. He was gone immediately. One by one, the others followed him. 

Harry hung back for a few moments. "Thank you," he said to Megha. "Thanks so much for your hospitality. We would have been royally screwed if it hadn't been for you." 

Megha laughed at the colloquialism. "Believe me, Mr Potter, it was no trouble at all. I enjoyed the company and I am glad to have met you all." 

"Oh, and… um… I really don't want to offend you, but…" 

"Speak, Mr Potter." 

"Well," Harry hesitated, "you know about Ponder. You know who he is. Can you not tell anyone, at least for the time being? I don't want the world to know, at least not yet." 

"Your secret is safe with me." She was emphatic. "And now you must go." 

"Yeah…" Harry made no attempt at moving. "And, um, listen. Hope the job prospects look up." 

She laughed. "I am sure they will. Now go!" 

Harry turned and smiled at her over his shoulder, stepped into the flames and was gone.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen: Home Is Where The Comfortable Beds Are 

_"The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing, or meeting." – George Gordon, Lord Byron._

One by one, they stepped into the main sitting room of Malfoy Manor, to discover that the house elves had carefully cleaned around the debris of Draco's various birthday presents. In a vague sort of way, the companions started discussing plans. 

Hermione tried to take charge. "I'll just tell Huxley where I am," she said, "and then…" 

"We can go home?" said Gytha, hopefully. 

"Well, then we can start working on sending you home, yes," Hermione said. 

"You'll be wanting the library," Draco said, morosely. "Can you find your own way?" 

"In this place?" Harry laughed. "They need at least one guide." 

"Excuse me a moment," said Hermione, sticking her head into the fireplace. 

"Come next door and have a bite to eat while she does that," Draco said, remembering the lessons of his youth. Good hosts always offered food, and besides… "I seem to remember someone suggesting that birthday cake might be on offer." 

He looked at Harry, who did his best to look mysterious. 

The mystery—what there was of it[1]—was soon reduced by several slices, and they started off towards the library, through Malfoy Manor's dark corridors and weird, echoing halls. 

"Big house," Ponder commented, when they'd been walking for five minutes and hadn't arrived. 

Draco shrugged. "The family have been adding to it ever since William the Conqueror gave us the original castle." 

"Like UU," Gytha said. "It seems to have acquired a new building every generation since Malich's time." 

"I suppose so," Draco replied, looking thoughtful. "New generations need new things. Anyway—here we are." 

He sketched a complex sigil over the carved oak, and the door swung open with a gloomy creak. 

"Of course, a significant proportion of the ancestors were over-dramatic villains," he added, leading the group in. 

"It's got nothing on the Tower of Art," Gytha said, and then she stepped over the threshold and stared at something in mid-air, her face going pale. She came to a complete halt. 

Harry, who as the only other person who knew the way, had been relegated to the back to round up any stragglers, nearly walked into her. "What is it, Gytha?" he asked. 

She shook her head, wordless, and then turned and walked past him, out of the room again. 

He exchanged glances with Draco before following her, Hermione close behind. 

She leaned against the cold stone wall of the corridor, visibly shaking. "What's the matter?" Hermione asked gently. 

"It… that… in there," Gytha managed. 

"Come and sit down," Harry said, opening another nearby door. "This is just a sitting room. Nothing to worry about." 

She accepted the invitation, as well as the glass of something slightly stronger than water which Harry produced from somewhere. 

"There's—a ghost, or something," Gytha explained, when she was a little calmer. "Didn't you see her? A tall woman, very powerful—and I think she had witch-magic as well as wizard." 

Harry thought for a moment, and then forced a laugh. "There are ghosts all over this place," he said. "Eighteen, last time we counted." 

"No," Gytha said. "Why didn't any of you see her?" 

"Some of them are shy," Harry told her. "And some of them have incredibly cruel senses of humour. Tell me, did she have long, blonde hair?" 

Gytha nodded. Hermione tried to catch Harry's eye, but he was already grimacing. "Probably Narcissa Malfoy. My—well, not-quite-mother-in-law. She was bad when she was alive, and she's worse now." 

"That makes sense," Gytha said, standing up. "It's okay. I'm better now." 

"You don't have to…" Hermione began, but Gytha was heading for the door. "I want to," she said firmly. 

* * * 

"Are you alright?" Ponder asked anxiously as they re-entered the library. 

"I'm fine," Gytha said, still pale. "I just—had a dizzy spell." 

Hermione nodded briskly. "Let's get on, then," she said. "Draco, is this pile of books categorised at all, or do I have to trawl through the lot?" 

"It's organised, of course," he sneered. "As you'd expect, it uses the Malfoy Standard system of 1482, which had been accepted international standard since 1531." 

Hermione snorted, but went to the bookshelves and started reading the titles anyway. 

Mystified, the three Disc-dwellers looked at Harry. "These days, most people use the Granger Method, which the British Ministry of Magic has been recommending since 2021," he explained. "Draco, may I have a private word with you?" 

Without waiting for an answer, he swept out of the room, abandoning the others to their studies. 

"There had better be a good reason for this," Draco hissed, as the door shut behind them. "I don't like leaving them alone in there with my books." 

"She can look after herself," Harry said tartly. "Look—Gytha wasn't just dizzy. She saw a ghost." 

"And?" 

"It wasn't just any old ghost." 

"What was different about it?" Draco was listening properly now. 

"For one thing, she said it had witch-magic as well as wizard-magic. Now, I'm not entirely sure what that means, but given her description—" he slid his hand around Draco's waist—"it wasn't just anyone." 

"Who?" Draco asked, quietly. 

"Your mother," Harry replied. 

Draco couldn't really **go** pale, having been born that way and never bothering to change, but his eyes went wide and his breathing quickened a little. "I thought we managed to Banish her," he said, and quickly corrected, "her ghost." 

"So did I," Harry said. 

"What did you tell them—Gytha and Hermione?" 

"Not much—who she was, that it wasn't a surprise, that she had a cruel sense of humour. Nothing untrue, just not all the truth." 

"Right," Draco nodded, but he still looked shaken. "So you think neither of them will ask awkward questions?" 

"I think it'll be okay, even if they do," Harry said. "I've got a plan, and it involves telling at least some of them." 

"Is that wise?" 

"It's only your pride that stopped us telling anyone before," Harry commented. "I don't think that telling a few trustworthy people, most of whom don't know anyone else we know, is going to be that much of a problem." 

"I still don't like it," Draco mumbled, but he followed Harry back into the library. 

* * * 

The Malfoy System, Rincewind learned, was both complex and magically-based, so that you had to use a spell to do almost anything with it. For example, if you wanted a book on Transfiguration, you had to cast a 'Find' spell, and then name the book you wanted. If you weren't sure which volume you needed, you cast a 'Find' spell, spoke a couple of keywords, and books pulled themselves off the shelves to dance in front of you until you picked one out and sent the others away. Similar spells enabled you to find all the books by one author or published at a certain time. 

For Rincewind, who was hopeless with spells, it was nearly impossible to use; and when more than one wizard was working with it at a time, the whole room filled with flying books, so that he spent more time cowering under the table than reading. 

Hermione grumbled about how inferior the system was to her own. "It laid the groundwork, I'll give it that. But the ability to use wildcard runes and to construct more complex search strings—what the Muggles call Boolean—really is invaluable. You'll have to reorganise sometime, Draco—why not now? Or last week?" 

"Because," Draco growled, "I like it the way it is." 

Gytha had got the hang of it quite quickly, and she and Hermione were soon buried deep in research and detailed discussions of Moebius curves, waveforms, and other arcane things. 

"I don't like this," Rincewind said to Harry. "Can I go somewhere else, please?" 

"Um… yes," said Harry, and signalled across the room to Draco. 

Draco looked around, peering through the clouds of books to see everyone, and then raised his hands in a dramatic gesture. The air went still. 

"How's the research going, Mrs Pince?" he enquired. 

"I think we're getting somewhere," Hermione replied. "Give me another three or four hours, and I'll have a definite answer about whether we can use the Floo system to send these people home. 

"Three or four hours?" Draco said. "I know—who wants a quick tour of the wonders of wizarding London?" 

"It can't be worse than being beaten to death by books," Rincewind said, and Ponder nodded agreement. 

"I'd be interested," he said. 

"Hermione, if I leave you here will you swear on your life that you won't damage anything?" 

"Honestly, Draco, do you think it's likely that I would?" 

"Yes. Swear," Draco demanded. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I swear." 

"Gytha, are you staying here?" Harry asked, trying to change the subject. 

"Err.. I think so," Gytha said, glancing at Hermione. "I can help with the calculations." 

"Okay," Draco said. "Four of us, then. Jolly good." 

They left Hermione and Gytha hard at work, and wandered back downstairs to a fireplace with a pot of Floo powder. 

"Say 'Diagon Alley'," Draco instructed, and then added with a sidelong glance at Harry, "Make sure it doesn't sound like 'diagonally'." 

Harry ducked his head, still cursing the day he'd filled Draco in on that story, and waited while the others went ahead, Ponder first. 

* * * 

Diagon Alley was full of people, who stopped and stared at Harry and Ponder and Draco. One or two of them spared glances for the strangely dressed Rincewind, too, and several were forced to take a few steps back by the Luggage. 

"You have the daftest ideas sometimes," Harry muttered to Draco. Silently, Draco put his arm around Harry's shoulders. 

"Don't mind us," Harry said to the crowd. "There's nothing of interest to see here." He made his best _do-what-I-say_ face, and they mostly moved on and let the little group alone. 

One didn't. "Harry, Draco, it's good to see you again, " Colin Creevy said chirpily. "Would you mind introducing me to your friends?" 

"Actually, Colin, I don't have that much time to talk," Harry lied. "We're on a research mission—Ministry stuff, not exactly public knowledge yet. Another day, okay?" 

"If you say so, Harry," Colin said, shrewd enough to be doubtful but unable to actually argue with him. "I'll see you soon." 

"See you," Harry said, and swept the other on up the street to a quieter spot. 

After that, they didn't have a lot of trouble. People recognised Harry and Draco, but they were a familiar sight in the wizarding world and nobody did much more than point the group out to their children. 

"This is… strange," Ponder said, staring around. "It's like UU—everyone is magical—but it's like the centre of a city." 

"That's right," Harry said, and a note of pride entered his voice. "It's the centre of wizarding in Britain—in fact, sometimes people call it the centre of the wizarding world." 

"It's amazing," Ponder breathed. "Although I don't understand why they're selling broomsticks." 

"In our world, wizards as well as witches ride broomsticks," Harry replied. He was about to say more, but a sudden scream cut him off. 

"Rincewind," Ponder said, turning toward the source of the scream. 

A pair of shoes sat in the road. Their owner had disappeared. 

"He was right there," Draco said. "I think someone jostled him, and he…" 

"Ran away," Ponder said. "I'm surprised it hasn't happened before now, to be honest."

  


* * *

[1] "Alfie is being sorry cake is being smaller, Master," the house elf had cringed on Draco's enquiry. "Alfie is doing much work in preserving cake, Master. But Master is eating some, and then Master is away for weeks, and then Master is coming back and demanding cake still here… Alfie is doing his best." With both Harry and Hermione looking on, Draco had been rather more lenient than he might once have been.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen: Unexpected Purchases 

_"Ah. Philosophy."—Om._

_"Ah, shopping."—Real Estate Digest._

"But why?" Draco asked. "Surely there's nothing wrong with a little harmless shopping-and-tourism expedition." 

Ponder stared at him. "Did you use that word in front of him?" 

"Which word?" 

"Tourism. Did you call it tourism?" 

"I might have done," Draco shrugged. He had, but there was no way he was going to admit that this was his fault. 

"Then that's probably why. In Rincewind's world, 'tourist' means 'idiot', and he wouldn't want to hang around and get into even more danger." 

"But why run away?" Harry asked. 

"It's sort of his philosophy of life," Ponder said, and then looked down. The Luggage was still with them, standing quite calmly by Rincewind's shoes. 

"This is not exactly normal," Harry remarked. Understandably, passers-by were stopping to look at them—Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, with a strange man, a walking box, and a pair of abandoned shoes. Irritably, he reached for his wand and added, "Oh, _Occaecos._" 

They saw the crowd look around, bewildered, and then gradually disperse when they didn't reappear. 

"Handy charm, that," Harry said. "Now, Ponder—where do you think Rincewind might have gone?" 

"You made us invisible?" said Ponder, who liked to know these things. 

"Yes," Harry told him. "About Rincewind?" 

"Has run away. We don't have a lot of hope of catching him, I'm afraid, at least not until he decides he wants to be caught." 

"That isn't good." 

The other two could only agree. "Hermione will kill me," Draco said bitterly. 

"Why you?" Ponder asked. 

Draco shrugged. "She'd never dare kill Harry, and she likes you, so it must be my fault," he said. "I think it's high time you told us where Rincewind might be heading **to**." 

"I've got no idea," Ponder said. "And I doubt he knows, either. Rincewind runs _from_ rather than _to._" 

"So what do we do?" Draco asked. 

"A tracking charm," Harry replied. "I'll go after him; you go back to Malfoy Manor and see what Hermione has to say." 

"Harry—" Draco said. "Are you sure? And what about—?" 

"Take a stone from the Manor, bind her into it—that's easy enough—and give it to Ponder. She can end her days in the Ankh." 

"I—" 

"Don't worry, Draco," Harry said, and kissed him lightly. "I'll be home soon." 

He Disapparated and Draco swore. 

* * * 

The trek back to the Manor was mostly conducted in silence. They went to the Leaky Cauldron and used the Floo from there. 

"Harry will be fine," Draco said encouragingly to Ponder as they walked up the stairs to the library. It was fairly obvious that it was an attempt to convince himself. "He's faced much worse."[1] 

"What did he mean about giving me a stone to throw in the Ankh?" Ponder asked. 

"Oh. Um. Don't worry about it. When he gets back, we'll explain it all properly." 

Ponder didn't seem to believe him, so Draco quickened his step. He really didn't want to explain the matter to Harry's other-worldly son. 

The door to the library was propped open. "Hello?" Draco said. "How's it going?" 

"We think we've got…" Hermione replied, and turned to look at them. Her gaze travelled slowly, assessing: one Malfoy, one Stibbons, one Luggage. No Potter. No Rincewind. "Where are the others?" 

"Rincewind ran away," Ponder explained, addressing Gytha rather than Hermione. "Harry followed him." 

"The Luggage didn't?" Gytha said, shocked. "That's…" 

"Weird, I know, but Harry didn't stay long enough for me to explain that," Ponder said. "It even insisted that we pick up his shoes. Maybe it knows he's going to come back here, or something." 

Draco was staring at him. "You didn't say that!" 

"Yes, I did," Ponder said. Draco was starting to annoy him. 

"I mean, before. Why didn't you say that before?" 

"I didn't have a chance," Ponder replied, calmly. 

"And so you've let Harry go off alone, to follow someone who might just wander back of their own accord?" 

"Thereby saving you and me from the trouble of following said someone," Ponder said. He was a little amazed to discover that Draco saw his point at once, and then surprised that he'd felt amazed. Draco was unusual, but he was still a wizard, and wizards tended to understand self-preservation. 

"But you could have saved us **all **from following," Draco said. 

"Harry can look after himself," Hermione put in. "I was about to say: we've got a fairly definite timing on when the worlds will be in alignment again, and hence when the Discworld people can go home. About an hour from now." 

"An hour?" Draco repeated. "We've got an hour to find Harry and Rincewind?" 

"Oh, longer than that," Hermione told him. "Things will be stable for perhaps fifteen minutes." 

"**Fifteen minutes!?!"**Draco yelled, and then indulged in some explosive punctuation.[2] 

"We'll cope," Hermione said. "After all, we don't actually have to find Harry. If we just find Rincewind, we'll either find both of them, or we can send him home and take as long as we like finding Harry." 

"Harry's a powerful wizard," Draco said. "If we send Rincewind home while Harry's still following him, he'll follow him back to the Disc." 

"Okay, so we need to find both of them," Hermione conceded. "Any ideas?" 

There was silence for a moment, and then a ghastly chuckling filled the room. 

"Got a little stuck, have we, my dears?" a voice said from high above their heads. They all looked up—even the Luggage lifted its lid slightly to do so—to see a pale ghost, the image of a tall women with shining blonde hair and an aristocratic face. Ponder looked at her, cast a rapid glance at Draco, and worked something out. 

"She's your mother?" 

"Worse luck," Draco said casually. "It's amazing Ichabod and I turned out as well as we did." 

The name was carefully spun to have maximum effect. 

"Ichabod?" the spectre enquired. "Ichabod?" 

She floated lower over them, in front of Draco. 

"That's right," he replied, face a careful blank. "Ichabod Lockhart. Do you remember him?" 

"Remember?" she growled. "I remember. You shouldn't know about him. I'll get you for that, you…" Magic crackled between her fingertips, and they cowered back. 

From somewhere on his left, a curse flew at her. She screamed, her magic dying back into her skin. Her image shrunk, was bound still, and finally absorbed into one of the crystals they had been using for magical experiments. 

"That's what you meant by witch-magic, isn't it, Gytha?" Hermione said calmly. "That it stays with the ghost after death." 

"That's part of it," Gytha said, shaken, looking at the stone. 

Draco stared at them. 

The Luggage's lid opened completely, and Rincewind said, "Did I miss something?" 

Draco took the easy way out. He fell to the floor in a faint. 

"Rincewind?" Ponder said. 

"Draco?" said Hermione. 

"Bugger," said Gytha, succinctly. 

Once Ponder had established that yes, it really was Rincewind, he too hurried to Draco's side. 

Draco was waking slowly, annoyed that he'd done something as embarrassing as pass out from shock. 

"It's okay, Draco," Hermione said soothingly. 

"No it's @~!ing not!" he replied. He felt the heat was excusable in the circumstances. "Harry's missing, there are people from another world here, and you, Granger, have invaded my library! Nothing is **okay**!" 

"It's not really an invasion," Hermione said. "More a sort of long visit. I vote you sit in one of your nice comfortable armchairs here, and we talk about what happens next." 

Draco scowled at her, but went so far as to allow Ponder to help him up from the floor as he complied. 

"As I see it…" Hermione began, but Gytha stepped in. 

"Rincewind, why where you hiding in the Luggage, of all places?" 

Rincewind looked sheepish. "I just wanted to look and see if I had any money, and it sort of swallowed me. Not unusual, really." 

Draco seemed close to passing out again, so Hermione went on. "As I see it, we have two tasks—one, find Harry, and two, send these people home." 

"Three, send my mother—neatly ensconced in stone—for a sail on the Ankh, and four, get you out of my house," Draco added bitterly. 

"Where did this idea of sending Narcissa back with them come from?" Hermione enquired. 

Flinching, Draco replied, "We've been working on the problem for a while. We thought we'd finally managed to Banish her forever, but it didn't work, so we're hoping that sending her to the only place we can think of that's as foul as she is might work. Harry's plan," he added, modestly. 

Ponder was unsure whether to be proud or annoyed about the way Draco had described his city. "I'm sure Ankh-Morpork will welcome your mother with open arms," he said. 

"Just the way Gilderoy Lockhart did, I expect," Draco snapped back. "Open arms and a memory charm at the ready, in case it all goes wrong." 

"I'll have you know that some people in Ankh-Morpork are kinder than that," Ponder said. Gytha hadn't seen her master get really furious often, but she recognised it. "The Watch accepts all sorts these days, and some folks in the Shades—Doctor Lawn, for one—are actually decent human beings." 

"I expect I'll find that my not-quite-mother-in-law's a captain in the Watch next time I visit you, then," said an amused voice from the doorway. "She'd make a good choice—when Vetinari dies and starts to haunt the city, he'll have company that's more than equal to the challenge." 

They turned, and Draco—unwisely—leapt out of his chair to greet the newcomer. 

"Harry! Harry, what happened?" 

"I couldn't find Rincewind," Harry began, and them spotted Rincewind in the far corner of the room. "Ask him what happened. I just did a few spells, searched for a while, and then gave up and came back here." 

"Oh, he got trapped by his own travelling case," Draco replied. "Apparently it's a common occurrence." He leaned on Harry's shoulder. "Hermione says we'll be able to send these folks home in about an hour." 

Hermione glanced at the Muggle watch she wore. "More like half an hour, now," she said. "We'd probably better start getting ready." 

* * * 

The goodbyes were mostly brief. They lit the fire with a certain amount of ceremony in the largest fireplace in the house—the kitchen; for some reason it was a popular room. 

"I'll see you again, son," Harry said to Ponder. "Gytha and Hermione can work out when it's safe to try crossings." 

"I'll look forward to it," Ponder replied. "Um… dad." 

He stepped into the flames and disappeared. 

"I'm keeping that copy of your book," Gytha said to Hermione. "L-space is always there—stay in touch." 

Hermione grinned at her. "Suggest to the Librarian that he might consider using my system," she said, and waved as Gytha stepped into the fireplace. 

"I'll be going, then," Rincewind said, and picked up the stone containing Narcissa Malfoy from the table. "Here, Luggage, look after this. We'll see how bad a place we can find to spit it out in." 

Together, they stepped into the fire; and then Hermione followed them. 

"I promised Huxley we'd have dinner together when you were out of trouble," she said. 

"See you," Harry replied, but she was gone. 

Harry and Draco stood in silence for a moment. 

Then Draco said, "Did I ever tell you about the **other** wizarding tradition?" 

"No," Harry replied. 

"Well, it goes like this. After a climatic battle, or a meeting with previously unknown relatives, or for that matter anything involving undue amounts of excitement, you have wild hot sex with whoever you can find." 

"Draco," Harry said, laughing, "all your traditions came out of the one book, didn't they?" 

"What's wrong with that?" Draco asked. 

Harry didn't reply; he just lead the way to the bedroom.

  


* * *

[1] Alert readers will of course be aware that by 'worse' Draco meant Narcissa, rather than Voldemort.

[2] *!#*!, for example. And one he'd learned from his grandmother, who reserved it for special occasions: !#@*#. And the exotic-sounding @~!, which literally translates as 'oh dear, not the ferrets again'. He'd made a point of collecting them on foreign holidays over the years.


	18. Epilogue

Epilogue: Morning In Ankh-Morpork 

_"Tempers Fuggit. Means that was then and this is now." __– Nanny Ogg_

"Hey! Hey, kid, wake up!" 

Sam turned over in his sleep. "Piss off." 

"You gonna kiss your girl with that mouth? Get up!" 

Sam opened his eyes. "You!" 

The raven glared at him. "You bet your tailfeathers it's me." She hopped through the open window and began tugging Sam's bedcovers with her beak. "Get up, you've got to get yourself down to the University!" 

Sam sat up in bed as the realisation hit him. "She's back? Gytha?" 

"Well, I dunno." The raven backed off and preened. "I heard it on the Tower this morning; Rincewind and Ponder are back, and they brought the girl. Now, you planning to get up or what?" 

Sam didn't answer. He was too busy leaping out of bed and making a grab for his clothes. Wisely, the raven slipped back through the window, flew down to street level and as Sam came catapulting through the front door, she soared. Within seconds, they were flying down towards the Ankh, knocking people right and left. Within minutes, boy and bird were on the straight and narrow path towards the University.[1] 

* * * 

As the Librarian knuckled across the floor on his way to the Library, he could hear voices emanating from within. One was male and one female, but one was muffled and reassuring; only the girl's voice was clearly audible: 

"I do want to, I do! What? No! No, I can't do that! He's Commander Vimes' son! Yes, of course it matters!" The sound of a stamping foot. "He's the son of a duke, and I'm only… I'm only… well, yeah, I wish that too. Oh, you're no help!" 

The Librarian pushed open the door. "Ook." 

Gytha leapt up, eyes shining. "Really? Is he _really_? Oh…" 

She ran towards the door, stopped, hesitated, came running back and skidded to a halt in front of the Librarian, who obligingly held up a mirror. She stared at it for a moment, ran her fingers roughly through her hair, yelled, "Thank you!" and went catapulting through the door. 

Silence descended like a thunderbolt after her departure. Ponder looked up and sighed. "Young love," he said morosely. 

"Ook," said the Librarian wisely, and offered him a banana. Ponder declined, and the orang-utan shrugged and shambled off between the shelves, stuffing the banana into his own mouth as he went. No sense wasting it, after all. 

Ponder sighed again and walked slowly and delicately towards the gap in the shelves below the dome. Hex was still lying where he had left it. While still using it with gusto, the students apparently hadn't dared move it to the HEM without his say-so. The thought cheered him up slightly as he sat heavily on the floor next to it, leaning against a shelf. 

It was still much too early in the morning for any of the other wizards to be awake, with the exception of Ridcully, who was no doubt off on a five-mile morning run, but after a moment, Ponder realised he wasn't alone. Adrian Turnipseed was still curled up at the base of the thinking engine, snoring lightly. "Good morning to you, too," Ponder told him. 

Adrian jerked in his sleep, but his eyes didn't open. Ponder glanced at him. "Well, I'm back," he said. "Bet you didn't notice I was gone." He paused. "No, of course you didn't. Never mind." 

He stretched out fully, leaning his head back. He was tired. "You know," he said dreamily, "I have a family. I know I had one already…" 

He really was tired. He stifled a yawn before continuing. "My… well, I suppose she was my mother. Yes, she was!" This was said with sudden emphasis. "She was. She brought me up, she looked after me, she made sure I was able to become a wizard." 

He sighed deeply. "And after all that, she wasn't my mother. I knew that; I didn't know I had family other than her. I have a father. And my father has family, and _they_ have family, and _they're_ all my family, too." 

Adrian shifted in his sleep. Ponder's voice, gentle as it was, was bringing him closer to consciousness. Ponder smiled. "Do you remember – in fact, I _know_ you remember – years ago, the Watch found a stranger from another world? I met him and I thought he was strange and he thought I was, and now it turns out he was one of my grandfather's dearest friends." 

Adrian rolled over; Ponder steadied him with one hand to prevent him from rolling over Hex's mouse. "And you know, I've been to another world. All I've got to show for it is something my father gave me." He sighed. "And it's a rock. A rock, that I have to throw in the Ankh." He withdrew it from his robes as he spoke, and held it up to the light. The rough stone felt warm in his hands, belying its treacherous origin. 

Ponder stood up suddenly. "And you know what else?" he demanded. Adrian was still definitely asleep. "I'm going out now, and I'm going to throw this rock into the Ankh. Because I _can_. Because I was born here. Because I've lived all my life in Ankh-Morpork, and that means I can do something that my father's asked me to do." 

He moved. As Adrian settled back into deeper unconsciousness, Ponder made his way swiftly to the door of the Library and was gone, heading out towards the scholars' entrance. 

From behind a nearby shelf, a small voice muttered, "Ook." 

"You're right," said another, female voice. "He did the right thing, coming back here. He couldn't have stayed with Harry and Draco." 

The Librarian inclined his head. "Ook?" 

"No, I mean it," Hermione insisted. "He belongs here and he knows it. Although…" She paused and sighed. "He's a lovely boy. Just what I'd have expected Harry's son to be like." 

"Ook?" 

"Of course I will. Not immediately – give it a few months, I think." She smiled. "It's not long till _Harry's_ birthday. I'll come and get him then, if you don't mind?" 

"Ook." 

"Thanks, Librarian. Now, I ought to be going – thank you again!" She laughed and turned around. The Librarian watched as she picked her way through the shelves, getting more and more distant until she disappeared altogether. 

* * * 

Commander Samuel Vimes had spent most of his working life in the Night Watch, and the effect of twenty years' working only in hours of darkness had still not worn off. He was never at his best at nine o'clock in the morning, staring bleary-eyed at breakfast and picking at the bacon. 

However, it was only about ten minutes before he realised what, or who, was missing. "Sybil? Where's Sam?" 

Lady Sybil smiled. "He's gone out for a while," she said, and turned away so her husband wouldn't see her expression. That morning at eight-thirty sharp, she had gone up to Sam's room to find a wide-open window, rumpled bedclothes and a hastily scrawled note on the pillow. Carefully adopting a poker-face, she turned back to Vimes. "I wouldn't expect him back soon," she said evenly, and smiled again as Vimes blinked and went back to the bacon. 

Later, just as Vimes reached Pseudopolis Yard to hear a report from Nobby about a University wizard accused of littering, Gytha and Sam came to an unwilling halt at the great wrought iron gates of Unseen University. "I'm sorry," said Gytha regretfully, "but I really have to get back. It's been a busy few days." 

"That's all right," said Sam, starry-eyed and currently of the opinion that everything, in this world and any other, was considerably better than _all right_. In a dreamy haze, he leaned forwards and kissed her lightly on the lips. 

She blushed prettily. "I'll see you soon?" 

"Of course," he promised. "How's tomorrow?" 

"Perfect." She smiled, leaned forwards and quickly kissed him back before running for it, ducking through the hole in the wall and scampering across the grounds. 

Sam proceeded to make his way home, merely blinking as a hoarse voice called out, "Nice going, kid!" and not quite conscious that his feet weren't quite touching the ground. Lady Sybil met him just as he was letting himself into the house, and wisely said nothing as he floated upstairs. 

* * * 

Gytha wanted nothing more than to sleep, take a bath and write a very excited, incoherent letter to her mother, in that order, but there was one thing she had to do first. Following the muddy footprints, she made her way into the Library. Ponder was lying on the floor next to Hex, curled up with his arms underneath his head. With eyes closed and lips slightly parted, he was fast asleep. 

Gytha glanced around and saw that, appropriately, Hex appeared to have acquired a large red pillow as part of its internal workings. She yanked it without a second thought – some things were more important – and gently pushed it beneath Ponder's head. She stood back, saw he was sleeping more easily, but wasn't quite satisfied. She took a few steps along a nearby shelf, scanning the floor, and after a few moments found what she was looking for. She lifted it. The smooth, sweet-smelling applewood was warm in her hands, and she took a moment to feel the raw power of it, running like delicate electricity through the length of the staff, making her feel for a few precious moments as though she were really possessed of the power, ancient and timeless, breaking up the lines of the world, this world, all worlds, _magic_. 

And suddenly, she was standing in the calm, sunlit quiet of the Library, and she was holding an applewood staff that did not belong to her. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she leant down and placed it within reach of Ponder's limp fingers. 

And then she left, moving quickly and quietly through the pools of sunlight, the books, the silence, back to the real world.

**_The End._**

  


* * *

[1] This path is entirely literal. One does not normally attend UU by following a metaphorically straight and narrow way.


End file.
